Veni, vidi, vici
by OnyxSphinx
Summary: The path to success is a long, winding one, trailing off into darkness, and it's better to walk with a friend in the dark than alone in the light.
1. Chapter 1

**_Title: Veni, vidi, vici_**

 ** _Author: OnyxSphynx_**

 ** _Beta: Radpineapple_**

 ** _Rating: T_**

 ** _Warnings: Canon-typical violence, language. Content may not be suitable for younger audiences._**

* * *

"Look! She's a raven!" someone on the playground whispers on Jaimie's first day of school. She's felt an itch at the base of her shoulder blades, starting out almost unnoticeable, but which spreads up her arms, feeling like fire ant bites. This isn't a cause for alarm—more than twenty-five percent of the human population falls into the subspecies _homo avis_ , as opposed to the remainder of the population, _homo sapiens_ by a genetic mutation; though what causes the mutation is unknown. Children wait anxiously for their seventh birthday, the usual time that _homo avis_ manifest themselves. While many children pass by that birthday mournfully, some, the lucky—or so culture teaches—ones grow plumage, from brilliant peacock blues to understated browns and greys. But there's one label all children dread.

 _Raven._

To be a raven is to be a social outcast, a pariah, always surrounded by suspicions; "At least you aren't a _raven_ " is a popular phrase—even criminals are viewed as better than ravens. Though the law bans outright aggression and discrimination based on one's plumage, well. Humanity is _cruel,_ isn't it?

So when the child utters the cursed word, Jamie's shoulders hunch, her feathers retracting back into her skin as she tries to hide her 'impurity' from the other children. The kids she has been playing with shy away from her as if they are afraid that they will be tainted. Someone with white egret's wings spits at her, glaring and muttering _freak_ under his breath. Jaimie Worthington Gordon knows then that she will be alone forever.

* * *

When her father dies, Jaimie feels free. The man, a D.A., screams at her the day after she gets home from school, threatens to send her to an orphanage if she ever disgraces him by revealing her plumage in public again. Her mother dies when she is four, leaving the young girl with her rapidly more drunken father, Peter Gordon. Though the man has never physically abused Jamie, he's left an emotional and psychological mark on the girl's mind, a festering, rotting mass of verbal abuse and degrading comments which's slowly, but surely, lowered her self-esteem.

So when the car crashes—probably because her father is _drunk,_ even Jaimie knows you aren't supposed to drive _drunk—_ and a bystander pulls her out of the wreckage, and the EMT pronounces her father dead, she feels numb. Reality is a blur, someone asking her something, shining a penlight into her eyes, pronouncing that she's in shock.

"Hey, kid," a cop nudges her, her partner getting statements from witnesses about the car crash, "You okay?" Her feathers are a vibrant indigo, glistening in the sunlight. Her voice's soft, gentle, and Jaimie finally breaks down, crying into her shoulder as the officer pulls closer, rubbing circles on her back. "Shhh," she whispers. "It's okay if you aren't okay."

That's eight years ago.

After that, she goes to live with her aunt, Janine, in Gotham Proper until she's of legal age. She doesn't know that Jaimie's a raven, and she never tells her; it's been drilled into her that anyone that gets close enough to her to learn of them dies, her own personal curse.

She enrols in the Gotham Military Academy at sixteen, learning everything from criminology to how to fire a gun and hit bullseye every time (and lock picking, but that isn't official). Then there's Afghanistan. In the field, no one cares if she has black plumage, or if she dislikes being touched on her arms or shoulders. In the field, you don't leave your unit behind. It's a nice reprieve from the rest of the world's prejudices.

She retires from service six years later, a hero, though, with the blood on her hands, she certainly doesn't feel like one. She returns to Gotham, eyes filled with the knowledge that comes with having held the powers of life and death, though her posture's as straight as it had been, her mind sharper than it was. Gotham, like a shadowed caretaker, welcomes her back into her arms, and sighs, content, that though she has returned changed, she's returned nonetheless.

* * *

As she gets older, her _avis_ features increase—nose becoming sharper, as do her eyes; hair turning into slim, thankfully golden, plumes. The largest changes come, blessedly, at night—hands and feet turning into scaled birds' claws, each finger sporting a jet-black, wickedly sharp, talon, and darker, thicker black feathers sprouting between her hair, which are easily passed off as the natural darkening of hair as she gets older.

Jaimie's almost started dating Barbara Kean—a nice, witty _homo sapiens—_ when she found out about Jaimie's wings. Needless to say, the relationship ends there. Thankfully, she'd been kind enough not to say anything to anyone else.

She joins the GCPD.

* * *

Jaimie sighs, staring at her reflection in the mirror. A soft song from a nightingale, hidden it the tree outside of her apartment, drifts in through the window. She flexes her fingers, watching in a morbid fascination as they ripple and transform, the change curling under her skin like a wave. Black scales and talons, black feathers up her arms and legs, growing thicker at her shoulders, and two messy black wings greet her when she glances back to the mirror. The primaries, secondaries, and coverts are lacklustre and bent from lack of care. While most _avis_ hold their wings in great regard, preening them every day, a meticulous process of rubbing oils onto them, combing them through, then brushing each feather with a feather-brush, hers are kept hidden, maintained minimally for flight.

Well, it wasn't like they _need_ to be. She's never met anyone who isn't openly prejudiced against ravens. _Maybe it would all go away if..._ she cuts herself off, scolding herself for even thinking of that, because she _isn't suicidal_ no matter what the voices in her head want her to think. The sun begins to rise, the nightingale going silent, and Jaimie pulls herself together, getting ready for another day at a precinct full of corrupt, aggressive policemen. Yay. _I really need a life outside of work._

* * *

When she arrives, the precinct's in total chaos, officers running pell-mell, some dragging arrestees to temporary holding cells, some trying to stay on their feet and not run into each other. Her _lovely_ partner, Harvey Bullock, is passed out on his desk, drooling, and more than likely drunk. She wrinkles her nose at the stench of spirits wafting off of the man. _Yep,_ she mentally sighs, _definitely drunk._ Just then, someone fires a shot and the precinct plunges into silence.

Jaimie instinctively turns towards the origin of the shot, eyes landing on a buff man who has another officer in a headlock, a gun pressed to her temple. "Where are my pills?" he roars. "Give me my pills!" Her mind racing, she evaluates her situation.

The man is large, larger than her, and obviously unhinged. Probably an addict of some sort, normally not too much trouble, but he has a hostage.

 _Wait!_ Her mind whirrs. Sitting on Bullock's desk is a bottle of pills—probably aspirin, but pills nonetheless, and in the state the man is, most likely good enough to pass for whatever "pills" he normally takes for enough time to free his hostage and incapacitate him. _And,_ the dark voice in her mind whispers, _Bullock'll wake with a headache the size of Russia with no aspirin._

Sparing only the smallest moment of pity for the future-hangover of the other Detective, she snatches the bottle off of his desk, careful to hide the large _ASPIRIN_ lable on the front. Jaimie briskly descends the stairs until she is at the back of the crowd. She pushes her way to the front, ignoring the glares of those she jostles. "Hold your fire," she says to the surrounding officers, voice steely. "Hey!" she calls to the man, "you want your pills? I have your pills," the man's gaze snaps to her, sightly craze, and she continues calmly, "I'll give you your pills, but you have to let Officer...Laville go."

The man cocks his head, and Jaimie can see the addiction-slowed cogs turning in his head, "Pills?" he questions in a gruff, sluggish tone. Jaimie nodds, and the man lets go of the officer he's been clutching and takes the bottle of pills. As soon as he's stepped away from Officer Laville, Jaimie leaps forward like a striking cobra and disarms the man. For a second, everything seems calm, and then someone shouts, "Take 'im down, boys!"

The other officers rush at the perpetrator, punching and hitting the man, and Jamie can feel the ghost of other children's fists from when she was a child and tries to yell, "Stop!", only for someone to shove past her causing her hip to hit the corner of a desk.

A few minutes later, Bullock's by her side pulling her up and barking, "What the _hell_ did you think you were doing?!" His grip's a tad bit tight, but she supposes she can forgive it—she _did_ steal his aspirin. "We had the drop on 'im! And anyway, if someone takes an officer's gun, he oughta' be shot."

"Yeah, well if one person had started shooting, we'd have a bloodbath!" She counters and he opens his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted.

"Gordon, Bullock, I need to speak to you," the Desk Sergeant's voice cuts Bullock off, and the two turn, and, with a glare at each other, walk to the Desk Sergeant's office. "Close the door behind you, rookie," the Sergeant directs, and Jaimie complies. "You two, I need you to check out a double homicide in the Theatre District-"

"What? No!" Bullock protests, "Our shift is almost over!" For once, Jaimie agrees with him. She shudders. _Maybe I should see a psychiatrist._

"'Almost' being the operative word, here," the Sergeant says, voice brooking no argument. Bullock's shoulders slump, and he nods.

"Well? Get to it, officers!"

"Right, ma'am," both Jaimie and Bullock reply in unison. _Yeah, I should_ definitely _see a psychiatrist._

* * *

Out in the alley in the Theatre District, a slight drizzle of rain patters on Gotham's cracked pavement. Jaimie decides to walk around the crime scene as the officer who called the homicides in gives Bullock the rundown of the situation. As she comes to the back of the tarp laid over the bodies, she spots a figure huddled under a blanket on the steps. Curiosity getting the best of her, she says softly, "Hey."

The boy shifts to face her, and she almost gasps—his wings, like hers, are black. But unlike hers, they're preened and shine with a dark iridescence, save for a few spatters of blood that mar the otherwise immaculate plumage.

"Um," she says awkwardly, "I'm Jaimie Gordon."

"Bruce—I'm Bruce," the boy says, eyes tearbright. "It's just—I should've _done_ something when the mugger threatened Mother and Father," Bruce sobs suddenly, hunching in on himself, and Jaimie hesitantly wraps her arms around him.

"No, it's not your fault," Jaimie whispers. "It's the mugger's fault—just like it was my father's fault for driving drunk. There's nothing you could've done. And I promise—no matter how dark things seem now, there will eventually be light."

"Th-thanks," Bruce whispers. "It just—I feel like it's my fault."

"It's not, I promise—there's nothing you could've done," Jaimie repeats, "and I swear, I will find the person responsible for your parents' death."

Suddenly, Bruce's head snaps around and he leaps up, a small smile breaking across his face. "Alfred!" he calls, running to an older man and hugging him.

Jaimie stands and goes over to him. "Officer Jaimie Gordon," she introduces herself.

"Alfred Pennyworth, Master Bruce's family—Master Bruce's butler," he quickly corrects himself, and the two shake hands.

"I promise I'll find the person who's responsible for this," Jaimie promises, and the butler cocks an eyebrow.

"You must be new here," he replies, "but I wish you the best of luck, regardless." Turning to Bruce, Alfred says, "Remember, Master Bruce—eyes dry in public, keep away from the paparazzi, and for Lord's sake, keep your wings hidden in public."

From above, a girl with frizzy hair scampers off, making a mental note that there is _one_ good cop in the GCPD.

* * *

"I can't believe you got us involved in that case without consulting me!" Bullock snaps at her over a plate of fries and a burger, the other unwrapped and in his hand. "Do you _know_ what happens to us now? It's a high-profile case—we'll be under enormous pressure to solve it quickly," he says, tone furious. "You could've saved us the stress, but _no-oo_ , not little-miss-goody-two-shoes."

"So?" Jaimie asks, frankly slightly puzzled.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Bullock shake his head. "The Waynes were two of the most important people in Gotham—if we don't solve it quickly, we'll be in hot water, from City Hall as well as the public!"

The café's door opens, and the bell at the top tinkles. A moment later, two people walk towards them.

"Bullock," the woman, whom Jaimie recognises as Detective Renee Montoya—she's engaged to Barbara if Jaimie remembers correctly—says, her wings, patterned like a red-tailed hawk's, folded slightly so as not to hit anything. Beside her, her partner, Allen, of the Major Crimes Unit, tips his head slightly in greeting, his small frame supporting bright Blue Macaw plumage puffed out slightly in a show of dominance over those he perceives as inferior. The hairs on the back of Jaimie's neck bristle slightly and her claws itch beneath her skin with the urge to change into her _avis_ form and challenge Allen. She ignores it, instead focusing on Montoya and Bullock's conversation. "We can take the case of your hands, get it done right for once," Montoya's offering, and Bullock's fists clench tightly.

"No, thanks. I ain't afraid of this case, or any others," he growls through gritted teeth. "And I suggest that if you want someone's case, 'specially mine, you try not disrespecting them." He smiles, more of a barring of teeth, and Montoya shrugs and she and Allen leave.

"I thought you didn't want the case?" Jaimie questions.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't about to give it over to Montoya after she disrespected me," Bullock shoots back, and takes a bite from his burger, stubbornly refusing to say anything beyond that point.

* * *

Later, back at the precinct, Jaimie and Bullock stand in Captain Essen's office along with the Captain herself, watch the press conference on the TV in her office.

"We _will_ bring the Waynes' killers to justice," the mayor, Aubrey James, proclaims, and Bullock mutters under his breath about how the only people that man can bring to justice are whoever Carmine Falcone decides is in his way at the moment. The Captain shuts off the TV, rubbing her temples.

Abruptly, Bullock asks, "May I have a moment of your time, Captain? Alone." He shoots a glare at Jaimie.

"Of course," Essen sighs wearily. "Gordon, give us a minute, please." Jaimie nods, exiting and closing the door behind her.

"...I demand a new partner!" Bullock's voice is loud enough that Jaimie can hear from her desk. She presumes that the Captain refuses, as a minute later, Bullock storms out and snarls, "We're leaving. There're some people to _talk_ to."

* * *

After two hours of chasing, apprehending, and, ahh, _questioning_ muggers later, they've hit a dead end. No one knows, or, if they do know, is willing to talk, and they decide to return to HQ. When they enter, they're greeted by an enthusiastic Edward Nygma, the GCPD's resident forensic scientist, who's practically bouncing on her toes, her normally hidden green swallow's wings fanned out and flapping slightly.

"Ah, Detective Gordon, Detective Bullock! Just the people I wanted to see!" She grins. "I analysed the bullet in Mr. Wayne's chest, and," she pauses dramatically, "It's no ordinary bullet—very high end, custom-made, most likely." She grins childishly.

"Thanks, Ms. Nygma," Jaimie says, genuinely thankful, and jabs Bullock in the ribs to stop him from saying something rude.

"No problem, Detective. And please, call me Ed."

"In that case, Ed, call me Jaimie," she smiles. "Thanks again, Ed. Have a good night," she says, herding Bullock away before he insults Ed.

After the two turn the corner, Ed whispers, "You too, Jaimie, you too," partially to herself, staring smitten, off into space.

* * *

"C'mon, Gordon, you said it yourself—this was no ordinary mugging," Bullock argues.

"And you're suggesting we go ask your lady-friend for a lead?" Jaimie asks, disbelief and doubt creeping into her tone.

"Fish isn't my 'lady-friend'," Bullock says crossly, "and I think we should ask her. She works under Carmine Falcone, and she owes me a favour."

"So you're suggesting we ask a known criminal," she summarises.

"This is _Gotham_ ," Bullock retorts. "That's how thing _work_."

* * *

At Mooney's Nightclub, Bullock greets Mooney, and Jaimie introduces herself. Mooney's eyes rake over her, and Jaimie feels like she's under spotlights. It's not a nice feeling. Instead, she moves off to the side of the room, and introduces herself to a dark-haired woman, whom she learns is named Osvalda, and the two strike up a pleasant conversation, though Osvalda winces slightly any time her ashy-faced owl's feathers move, as her slightly oversized wings are awkwardly half-splayed open. Jaimie thinks they look gorgeous regardless, which she tells the other, who blushes and thanks her, all the while trying to refute the statement.

"Gordon! Let's go!" Bullock calls, and the two bid their goodbyes.

"And _you_ scolded _me_ for consorting with criminals," Bullock observes as the two leave Fish Mooney's club.

"Shut up," Jaimie snaps, causing the other Detective to bark out a laugh.

Later, after Jaimie's returned home, taken a shower and, remembering Bruce's nicely preened feathers, decides that perhaps combing her own wouldn't be the worst idea. Halfway through the coverts on her left wing, using a hair-comb, as she's never bothered to buy a set of feather combs, her phone rings, and she carefully grabs it, making sure that her now-unsheathed claws don't scratch it, and tells Siri to answer it.

"Hello," she says.

"Gordon," Bullock says at the other end, breathing heavily. "I have a lead."

* * *

The next morning, Jaimie wakes before her alarm and turns it off, yawning as she goes through her morning routine. She fries herself hash-browns and feeds breadcrumbs to the ravens that like to perch on the strip of wood that juts out a bit outside her kitchen window and waters her aloe plant.

Jaimie pulls on a coat over her uniform, grabs her badge, and sets off to meet Bullock.

Their rendezvous point is a well-maintained apartment building, where Bullock says that someone has a bit of intel that might help them in their case.

Bullock, who now insists on being called Harvey for reasons unknown, says, "Mooney says that one of the tenants, a Mario Pepper, tried to sell one of her fences a pearl necklace matching the description of the one that Martha Wayne was wearing."

"Hmm," she hums. "And just how reliable is her info?" she asks.

"Reliable enough," Harvey says shortly, and Jaimie remembers his unusual breathing pattern from when he called the night before. Huh.

"So that's what you were doing last night," she muses out loud. He doesn't blush or fluster, but he diverts her attention by ringing the doorbell.

A young girl, most likely Pepper's daughter, opens the door, and her guarded expression tells Jaimie that they weren't expecting guests.

"May we speak to your father?" Jaimie asks politely, and the girl shrugs.

"Sure." She turns around and yells, "dad, the police're here to talk to you!"

A minute later, a well-built man, probably in his forties, his red hair starting to grey, shows up.

"Excuse me, Mr. Pepper, we're with the GCPD. We have some questions to ask you," Harvey says, and both he and Jaimie flash their detective badges.

"Of course, of course. Come in," Pepper says, escorting them to the kitchen.

"Mr. Pepper, where were you on the night of the Waynes' murder?" Jaimie asks, watching his reaction.

"I was here, with my wife Alice," he replies, and his wife, who's serving tea to everyone, supports his claim readily, as does their daughter Ivy.

"Then I suppose you wouldn't mind if we had a look around?" Jaimie asks, and the man freezes up for a second before knocking over the table, sending the biscuits and tea all over the carpet and vaults out the window. After a moment, Jaimie and Harvey follow.

After a bit, they get separated, and Jaimie finally tackles Pepper in an alleyway. However, Pepper's obviously been expecting such a situation, and he pulls a small blade from under his sleeve and slashes at Jaimie, causing her to fall back. He looms over her, ready to deliver a fatal blow, and she feels fear coursing through her-

Bang!

A bullet lodges itself in Pepper's side, and he howls in pain before collapsing.

 _Thank God for Harvey Bullock_ , she thinks, quickly followed by another note to see a psychiatrist, though really, she'd be lying through her teeth if she said she could afford one in Gotham.

* * *

Later, the GCPD investigate the Pepper apartment and find a lockbox, inside which is the pearl necklace and a gun.

The mayor insists on holding a press conference at the GCPD. The mayor insists on congratulating Jaimie and Harvey for, quote, "Excellent detective work!" After the entire nightmarish ordeal, the two decide to go eat burgers and fries to try and drown in the grease.

* * *

Further away, in a dimly lit room, Osvalda Cobblepot fidgets nervously under the unrelenting stares of Allen and Montoya. Good grief, why had she ever thought this was a good idea?

"Well, Cobblepot?" Montoya asks impatiently. "We haven't all day."

Right. She swallows, takes a deep breath. She's doing this for Jaimie, who believes so passionately in the right people being convicted. "Mario Pepper was framed," she says. "Fish Mooney, working with the GCPD, framed Mario Pepper."

* * *

After the Waynes' funeral, as everyone begins to leave, Bruce stops by where Jaimie is to thank her.

"Really, though, thank you, Detective," Alfred adds, "it means a lot."

"It was no problem—I'm glad I could help," she replies.

When she returns to GCPD HQ, she's greeted by a skittish looking Ed.

"What's wrong, Ed?" She asks, concerned.

"Umm," the other glances around nervously, "I just—I thought you might want to—to know that. Um." She pauses again and lowers her voice. "Allen...Allen and Montoya were talking earlier about they got it from a private source that you and the GCPD framed Mario Pepper—I wasn't eavesdropping, I just passed by," she says in one breath and Jaimie sees Mario Pepper in the ICU in the Gotham General Hospital and feels so, so grateful that the man isn't dead. She doesn't want another life on her soul, though by now the thing's probably as red with blood as her wings are dark like the night.

"Thanks for telling me," she says to Ed. "Excuse me, I need to talk to Detective Montoya."

"Yeah, no problem. Glad I could help," Ed calls after her, and thinks to herself, _I'd do anything for you._ In the small mirror on the wall, Mirror-Ed smiles to herself.

* * *

"Montoya," Jaimie calls to the detective. "A minute of your time?"

The other turns to face her, barely acknowledging her.

"What evidence do you have that I framed Mario Pepper?" She asks hotly, practically jabbing the other's chest with her index finger.

"You'll see when I have you and your crooked palls in court," Montoya retorts cooly and turns heel and walks away.

Jaimie controls herself, but just barely. However, she can feel there's something wrong with the Waynes' deaths and decides to pay Alice Pepper a visit.

Once there, she once again feels extremely grateful that Mario Pepper's still alive.

"Can I see his shoes?" she asks, remembering something that Bruce said. She inspects all of his shoes and concludes that Mario must've been framed—none of his shoes matches the 'shininess' that Bruce described.

"Mario was no saint, but he wouldn't kill someone," Alice Pepper adds, and Ivy agrees.

"Thank you very much," Jaimie says, and adds, albeit slightly awkwardly, "the doctors say he'll be ready to come home in a month."

* * *

"...She _set us up_ , Harvey! She planted the evidence and framed Pepper," Jaimie yells at the other, standing in a secluded alley.

"That's impossible," Harvey retorts, refusing to see what's going on. "Fish wouldn't do that."

"Well did it ever occur to you that Fish is a criminal and criminals lie? Or are you just _that_ blinded by your infatuation with her?" she shouts, furious. "You know what? I'm done trying to convince you." She throws her hands into the air. "I'm going to confront her." Turning on her heel, she storms away, one destination in mind: Fish Mooney's nightclub.

Once she gets there, it's half past two in the morning, and the sky's still dark, the bight lighting outside the club casting multicoloured shadows across her face. Normally, she'd take a second to stop and look at the way that the cats frolic in the shadows, but not this night. No, this night, she is _pissed_.

She slams the door open, and strides over to Mooney's table, causing the woman to stand up, the dim lighting accentuating her high cheekbones. She doesn't waver, her eyes steely when Jaimie growls, "How dare you—how _dare_ you frame an innocent man!"

Instead, Mooney asks, cockily, not denying her statement, "And what're you going to do about it?"

"Wait and see," Jaimie snaps.

Mooney laughs slightly. "I don't like surprises," she says, voice icy, and three thugs leap at Jaimie. She snarls at them and knocks one out, blocking another's blow to her ribs, and everything blurs, her fingers melting into talons, and she slashes at the two _homo sapiens_ , leaving bleeding gashes on arms and torsos. Within five minutes, the other two're knocked out as well, but in her post-confrontation high, she fails to hear Mooney move, and is knocked out cold from behind.

* * *

"Excuse me, Detective Bullock!" Ed calls, jogging to catch up with the man, who sneers at her slightly.

"What is it?" he asks, hatred of Ed evident in his tone, something she's never able to understand. She figures she must've accidentally made a socially unacceptable mistake around him—Ed's always had trouble with social cues and such, though she really _has_ been trying harder recently.

"Ah, I was just wondering if you'd seen Ja—Detective Gordon? I was looking for her earlier, a possible lead on something, but I needed her to verify it?" her voice rises slightly at the end, making it more of a question than a statement, but, thankfully, Bullock doesn't notice.

"No, she's on a stake-out righ' now, but she should be back by five," Bullock says, and Ed nods, thanking him, and makes to leave. Her mind is whirring—Bullock lied, she knows that Jaimie isn't doing a stake-out, Ed read the case file. Which means one thing: Jaimie's in trouble, and Bullock knows where she is. Right on cue, the detective nervously glances around before hailing a taxi. Ed, too, hails a taxi, ordering the driver to follow Bullock's car, which, thankfully, is easy to follow, as, at three at night in Gotham, most people are asleep. She has to pay a bit extra, but she'll willingly give up buying a monthly subscription to Puzzles Daily if it means that Jaimie stays safe.

Once the taxis stop, Ed leaps out, chasing after Bullock into the meat-packaging plant. Once inside, she sees something that makes dread rise in her: Jaimie, hung upside-down like the cows waiting to be packaged, blood slowly dripping down her face and onto the floor. Panicking, she rushes to her side, ignoring Bullock's noise of surprise, and, seeing the cut on Jaimie's head and temple up close, as well as her split lip and bleeding nose, mutters, "Shit."

Trying to focus on stemming the blood, she fumbles for the small pack that she keeps in her coat that contains gauze, a small package of wet-wipes, a spool of suture thread, and an emergency suture needle. Ed threads the needle as quickly as possible, peripherally seeing Bullock get up and go talk to a man who she hadn't noticed before. She uses a wet-wipe to clean off the dried blood and stitches up the large gash on Jaimie's temple, wrapping the gauze around it, and is about to start on the gash in the Detective's hair when she hears Bullock yelp, and a thud. "Wha-?" she starts to ask, turning around, but the man who Bullock was talking to quickly knocks her out as well.

* * *

"Kill them all," Fish hisses into her phone, furious, and hangs up. Osvalda, seeing that the mob boss's glass is empty, quickly moves to refill it, lest Fish gets mad. "Osvalda, massage my feet," Fish orders as soon as her glass is full, and Osvalda complies. "Falcone grows old and weak," she says to Osvalda, "and someone will have to take over from him soon, and who better suited to the position than me?" Her eyes are slits, and she drapes languorously.

"Of course," Osvalda agrees, "you'd be the perfect fit."

Fish opens her eyes and takes a sip of her wine, listening to the comic on stage, and says, nonchalantly, though there's a hidden blade in her tone, "I know you _betrayed_ me—you were the only person who saw me handling the pearl necklace."

"No!" Osvalda protests vehemently. "I would never betray you—I'd cut my own vein open if you told me to!"

Fish sits up, and pulls a small blade from beneath a cushion and hands it to Osvalda. "Prove it—prove your loyalty to me, my little Penguin."

That's the last straw—Osvalda hates that nickname with a burning passion, hates how it highlights her weaknesses, hates it, hates _Fish_. She lunges at the woman, wings out and flapping to give her an extra boost and make it hard for Fish to see, aiming at her face, but Fish's prepared. She grabs a chair and knocks the smaller woman over, beating her with a bat, and there's a sickening crunching sound as the bat connects with Osvalda's left wing breaking the bone and causing her to scream, until she passes out from pain.

* * *

Jaimie comes to eventually, feeling the gauze and stitches, and wonders why everything seems to be upside down—then, she realized that she's hung up next to Harvey and Ed, the latter of the two not having yet woken up yet.

A man, whom Jaimie IDs as Butch, one of Mooney's thugs, walks past, and, after grinning at her in an ominous way, calls, "Franky!"

Another man, presumably Franky, appears, clothed in chainmail and a black hood, and selects a butcher's knife from off of a table covered in various blades, and begins to advance on them-

The door opens and the people enter, shooting all of Mooney's thugs, save for Butch, dead. A second later, Carmine Falcone himself appears. "Tell Fish that if she wants to kill policemen, she has to ask me first," he tells Butch, who's cowering in fear. "Go on—tell her!"

Butch yelps slightly as a warning bullet streaks past his face, and he hurries away.

"Release them," Falcone orders his men, who make quick work of their bindings. By now, Ed's lack of reaction's begun to frighten Jaimie, and as soon as she's stood up, she checks the forensic scientist's pulse, breathing a sigh of relief when she finds Ed's heartbeat, steady and strong. However, Falcone calls, "Gordon, I'd like to speak with you in private," and Jaimie's forced to follow after the Don.

"I was good friends with your father, and I admired his integrity and zeal as a D.A." Falcone says, and Jaimie barely hides a snort of disbelief. _Integrity,_ she thinks, _What integrity did Peter Gordon ever have?_

Instead, she says, "I admit, at first, I suspected you killed the Waynes—but now I'm fairly certain that if that were true, I wouldn't be here talking to you."

The Don chuckles, then grows serious once again. "Truly, I do not know who killed the Wayne's, and I doubt that anyone else does—it was, most likely, the low-rent crime that it seems. But what matters is that justice is being served, and that law and order are upheld in the city," Falcone continues, "After all, Ms. Gordon, I _am_ a businessman, and anarchy is bad for business. But if you try and expose the frame up, or Gotham, and the GCPD's corruption—well. It would be in everyone's best interests that you don't," Falcone finishes, threateningly.

* * *

Later, after they return to the precinct and Ed's taken to the infirmary, Harvey says, "Hey, Gordon, there's something we need to do at the Docks."

Jaimie feels suspicion rise in her, but decides to leave a note at her desk, saying that she's at the Docks, and if she isn't back by seven, she's probably dead. That cheery note on her desk, she follows Harvey to a car, a '67 Impala—his car, or so he claims.

"Yeah, right," Jaimie rolls her eyes. "You'd never be able to afford a car like this."

"Oh shut up and get in," Harvey grumps, and the two settle into a silence as they drive, the sky painted pastels from the sunrise. Once they get to the Docks, they both get out, and, as Harvey goes around to open the trunk, Jaimie blinks in the morning sunlight.

She goes around back and gasps—it's Osvalda, whimpering in pain, one wing bent at an odd angle. "Osvalda!" She exclaims, going to check on the other, but Bullock blocks her.

"Sorry, Gordon," he says, "the Don's ordered ya to off this little thorn in 'is side, prove ya'll remain quiet 'bout the frame-up."

And Jaimie, in that moment, remembers what her mother told her as a child: fool me once, shame on you, fool me again, I'll be the viper in your bed. _Play the enemy, deceive them, and when they trust you, you can strike their weakness._

"No," she says, and the game has begun.

Bullock shrugs. "If ya don't do it, I have orders from the Don to kill the both of you—I've grown to like ya, Gordon, and it won't be easy ta off ya, but I will, or else Falcone'll kill alla us an' probably Nygma, too."

Jaimie nods, as if in defeat. Keeping up the charade, she pulls her gun out and grasps Osvalda gently, careful to make it seem as if she's digging her fingers into the other's skin, and marches them both to the pier.

"A terrible war is coming, Detective!" Osvalda warns, trying to convince Jaimie to not shoot her, panic evident in her voice. "Falcon's enemies will try to take advantage of his weaknesses; I can be a useful spy for you—I can help prevent the bloodshed that's coming-!" she pleads.

"Shut up," Jaimie growls, and thinks, _Osvalda, please, forgive me,_ and spins her around to face the water, placing the gun to Osvalda's head.

"Please, have mercy," Osvalda begs, and Jaimie leans in, spreading her wings to hide the movement, aware that her raven wings will only make Bullock more likely to believe the hoax she's about to commit.

"Don't ever come back to Gotham," she whispers into Osvalda's ear and, firing the gun right next to head, shoves her into the water.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Title: Veni, vidi, vici_**

 ** _Author: OnyxSphynx_**

 ** _Beta: Radpineapple_**

 ** _Rating: T_**

 ** _Warnings: Canon-typical violence, language. Content may not be suitable for younger audiences._**

* * *

Later, much later, she visits Wayne Manor, and is alarmed to see Bruce standing on the lip of the roof, as if contemplating suicide—after all, the boy's wings aren't well developed enough to save him from the fall. A minute later, Alfred appears around the corner, huffing as if having run the entire way. "Master Bruce," he shouts. "Get down here!" Bruce, seeming to have heard the butler, disappears from the edge and Alfred ushers Jaimie into the living room.

Bruce's standing there when they get there, and, seeing the looks on their faces, says, sullenly, "I wasn't contemplating suicide, I was teaching myself to conquer fear."

"Fear is a good thing," Jaimie retorts. "It keeps you alive—tells you where the edge is. But that's not what I'm here for," she pauses. "Pepper was framed, but I promise that I will do everything in my power to find their killer—but you mustn't speak a word of this to anyone else, or we'll all be in grave danger."

"Of course," Bruce agrees. "And thank you, again, Detective."

* * *

On the far side of Gotham Bay, Osvalda, soaking and shivering, climbs out of the river, alone except for a fisherman, who hasn't noticed her. _Desperate times call for desperate measures,_ she thinks, and, grabbing the man's fillet knife, slits his throat and opens his tackle box, wolfing down the sandwich within. She looks across the bay and remembers the Detective's mercy, remembers how Jaimie was kind to her when others turned up their noses in disgust or tried to kill her. Osvalda looks across the bay to Gotham, and thinks, _Soon. Soon, I will rule Gotham, with my saviour by my side._

* * *

The room's barely lit, blinds drawn and blocking out the moonlight, its single light source—a flickering candle—obscured by Bruce. Taking a deep breath, he steels himself for the pain and places his hand over the flame. He stifles a gasp of pain, squeezing his eyes tight to try and prevent tears from falling—the pain is more than he expected and he can almost immediately smell the scent of burning skin, sickly sweet and burning plastic and paper set alight all in one. As if sensing his pain from afar, Alfred's suddenly there, yanking his hand away from the flame.

"Master Bruce!" he exclaims, inspects the boy's hand, noting his glassy eyes and how he winces when a small breeze whispers across the angry red skin, already blistering, and, tears in his own eyes, thinking, _Oh, Master Bruce, you foolish, stubborn boy,_ gently pulls the boy into a hug. Bruce is stiff for a moment before he melts into the butler's embrace.

* * *

Meanwhile, in a back alley on the other side of Gotham, two people climb out of an unmarked van. The children warming their hands over a fire in a metal trash bin look up in interest, and fear, as the man and woman approach them, each holding a bag in each hand.

"Hey," the woman says, addressing them, posture non-threatening, "I'm Patti and this is Doug. We're volunteers in the mayor's Homeless Outreach project." The man, Doug, opens the bags, and hands each of the children a sandwich.

"Mmm, thank-ye miss," says the youngest boy. "These are really good!"

"Of course," Patti replies, smiling. "Anything I can do to help the citizens of the City." The children ravenously devour the sandwiches, licking their fingers. Doug stares in disgust, but is careful to hide it.

A minute later, the children sway slightly, and the oldest, a girl who introduced herself to them as Lana, says, "Miss, I feel diz- _zy_ ," she yawns, and then her eyes snap open, panic shining in them for a second before her eyes, like the two other childrens', roll back into her head and she collapses. Patti and Doug return to the van and open the trunk, pulling out three black bags.

"Hurry up, you moron," Patti snaps at her partner. "What if someone sees them!"

"Then I kill 'em," Doug replies, patting the gun clipped to his belt. The two turn around, and see a man leaning over the children, a sandwich in his hand.

"Hey! You!" Doug shouts when the man sees them and scrambles up and begins to run. Doug chases behind him, pulling out his gun, but the man vaults up through a restaurant window, and Doug figures that the shattered glass probably knocked him out and returns to the van. Patti lugs the last child—in a black garbage bag—into the trunk and climbs into the driver's seat, waiting for Doug to climb into the passenger seat and they drive off under the Gotham night.

* * *

"Ugh," Jaimie groans quietly, closing her eyes and her hand comes up to rub the bridge of her nose as the pompous officer spouts off another list of bullshit reasons why she can't take the convict in for questioning. "Look, officer Robinson, I _don't care_ how much you're being paid to keep this man here, I _am_ taking him back for questioning, got it?"

The officer sneers at her but relents. Just as she begins to escort the man, who officer Robinson tells her only goes by Mackey, Bullock strides in, loudly complaining that their shift is almost over. Jaimie digs her fingers into her palm, the small crescents of pain just barely enough to remind her that if she throttles him she'll be fired.

Back at the precinct, after Ed graciously makes her a cup of dark coffee, and Jaimie wishes her well, she heads back down to the interrogation room. As she cracks the door open, she hears Bullock demand Mackey tell the truth.

"I swear it's true!" Mackey pleads. "There's people takin' kids off the streets by the dozens—ask Cat, she'll tell you!"

" _Tell me the truth or I'll beat it outta ya!_ " Bullock roars, and Jaimie steps in.

"Harvey," she says quietly, remembering to say his name without the loathing tone that accompanies it in her mind. "That's illegal."

Bullock turns around to face her, the shorter man glaring up at her. "As if that stopped you from offing Cobblepot, _raven,_ " he sneers, and Jaimie wishes she could murder _him._ "Our shift is over." Bullock exits, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Osvalda limps along the lone road back into Gotham, the break from her now-retracted wing having transferred into a break in her left leg. She remembers having passed a "Ten miles to Gotham" sign around two hours ago, so she reckons she's probably nine miles from Gotham. _Hopefully, someone driving into Gotham and willing to take me with them comes along soon,_ she thinks, unsure how much longer she'll be able to deal with pain like this. It's one thing if it's an unavoidable monthly ordeal, and one can curl up with a hot-water-bottle and ice-cream and quite another if it can be relieved by just not moving. Thankfully, the universe seems to be smiling on her today, because not five minutes later, a van rattles to a stop and a girl, probably in college and drunk, opens the passenger window, and says, "Hey, you! You need a ride to Gotham?"

"Yes, thank you," Osvalda says politely, and gripping the fillet knife tightly just in case, climbs into the car.

"Beer?" asks the boy sitting in the driver's seat, probably just of legal drinking age, only a few years younger than she is.

"No, thank you," she says, and he guffaws.

"'No, thank you,'" he mocks, imitating her in a high and meek voice, "listen to your voice—and you stink. What'd you do, go swimming in Gotham Bay?" He shakes his head.

"You looked like a penguin waddling on that road," the girl in the passenger seat says offhandedly, and it opens up a pit of hidden rage from all the times that Fish called her _little Penguin_. Osvalda, in a blind rage, lunges forward and slashes the girl's neck open with the fillet knife. The driver shrieks and slams his foot on the breaks, making the tires screech, and tries to leap out of the van, but Osvalda knows better than to leave witnesses, and semi-regretfully kills him as well, placing both of the bodies in the trunk, taking the boy's place in at the wheel and at the first opportunity dumps them into a ditch. After driving for a while, she sees a _For Sale_ sign for a trailer outside of a farmhouse, and trades the farmer living there—a wizened old man who doesn't notice the bloodstains in the back and probably never will—the van for the trailer and his truck, driving onward to her destination: Gotham.

* * *

"She won't let me force the answers outta them," Bullock whines childishly to Essen. _Good gods, the man is annoying,_ Jaimie thinks, not for the first time that day.

Essen turns to her, eyes boring into hers. "Are you with the program, Detective Gordon?" she asks, voice soft, but danger lurks beneath. Jaimie doesn't reply. "Give me an update on your case, Detective Gordon," Essen says, changing the subject.

Jaimie gives her a brief rundown, ending with, "Mackey claims that people are kidnapping street kids."

Bullock snorts. "I can't imagine why anyone would want to buy homeless kids unless they're attractive girls." Jaimie wants to throttle him. Thankfully, for both Bullock's life, and Jaimie's sanity, the door opens and Ed enters. Jaimie taps a quick, _Thank you, you're my knight in shining knitted green_ to Ed using taps of her fingers to replicate Morse code, which she knows the other is fluent in, what with her love of puzzles, and Ed smiles lightly at her.

Turning to Essen, Ed says, "Mackey had a very high concentration of ATP in his system-"

"Use regular English, you pompous airhead," Bullock mutters and Ed glares at him before continuing.

"-a very potent knockout drug. As it's unavailable on the street, the only way for his assailants to have obtained it is having bought or stolen it from a pharmacy," Ed concludes, before Essen thanks her and dismisses her.

"One last thing," Ed says, looking at Jamie, as she exits, "The start of every incident, the middle of every thing, once in illness, twice in an illusion, and thrice in illicit, what am I?"

"The letter i," Jaimie responds after thinking for a moment, and Ed breaks out into a megawatt grin, and spins on her heel, closing the door softly behind her and Bullock mutters something about useless word games.

"Detectives, you will investigate this," Essen orders, "and for God's sake, keep it _out_ of the papers."

"But-" Jaimie starts to protest.

"That's an _order,_ Detective."

Jaimie scowls but agrees, and she and Bullock leave.

"Maybe we shouldn't go," Bullock says, suddenly hesitant, "That's on Fish's turf, and, well..." he trails off. _I hope she does murder you_ , Jaimie thinks viscously, but Bullock's already started off to grab his coat.

* * *

Fish lazes in her seat, watching in rapt attention as the singer on stage performs some _truly_ astounding feats of vocal—and aerial—prowess, wings of a turtle-dove's fanning out as like a halo. Unfortunately, they remind her of that Cobblepot girls', and for a brief second, she feels envious— _she_ should've been the one with wings, not that little misbegotten wretch. However, the club doors open and Carmine Falcone enters, taking her mind off of the subject.

"What brings you to my humble abode?" she questions, instantly on guard. Surprise visits from the Don never mean anything good. He gestures to his men to stand off to the side as he takes a seat across from her.

"I fear that the death of the Waynes will throw my plans off, and attract my enemies," he replies. "Already, my rival, Salvatore Maroni, begins to move against me."

 _No, no, no, you can't get rid of him, he's crucial to my plans!_ she screams inside her head. Outwardly, she keeps her expression bare of any hint of her internal turmoil. "You needn't worry about Maroni," she placates. "He's number _two_ for a reason."

Falcone smiles, teeth glittering an unsettling white. "I never lose sleep over my enemies, only those who are my supposed friends," he says, and _oh this isn't good._ Fish's warning alarms are blaring inside her head, deafening. "Before Cobblepot died, she told me something _interesting_ ," Carmine casually says. "She claimed you were plotting against me." Fish's mind scrambles, _fight or flight_ but no, she can get herself out of this.

"I wouldn't dare," she says, voice sweet as a double-edged blade, playing the submissive card.

Carmine cocks his head, observing her.

"Good." He seems to accept it, before asking, "How is your paramour?"

"Lazlo is well; though really, I only keep him around for exercise," she replies, calling for said waiter. The man, dressed in the typical red uniform of all waiters in the club, but when he sees Falcone he pales slightly. Falcone gestures to his men, who casually take Lazlo aside. A second later, there's the sound of flesh meeting fists and screams of pain. After a few minutes, all of which Falcone spends smiling pleasantly at her, hands folded in his lap, he and his men leave.

As soon as they're gone, Fish's façade shatters, and she practically howls, " _Leave! All of you, get out!_ "

* * *

"Mrs. Cobblepot-"

"Kapel _put,_ " she corrects the irritating detective.

"Mrs. Kapelput, it would really be a great help if you could tell us when you last saw your daughter," the Detective says.

"She will be back soon, my little girl. No man can keep her away from her mother," she insists, before getting up to go check on the kettle. Through the wall, she can hear them theorizing that her darling Osvalda's death. One suggests it was probably Fish Mooney and some corrupt cops' doing. She sighs. It's not as if she doesn't know what her daughter does—really, her lies are transparent, and, having worked in the Austrian Mafia when she was younger, Gertrud knows the signs. She also deeply distrusts police, but she knows that if she acts like a senile old woman, they'll be more likely to leave her alone.

She thinks of her daughter, who just the other day came home radiant and chattering about a police-woman she'd met ("You'd like her, mother. She's honest.") and how her daughter is cunning. Gertrud doubts that her daughter is truly dead, but she also knows that it would be in both Osvalda, and her, favour if everyone else believes so.

So, she returns to the sitting room, a tray of tea in her hands, and plays the senile old mother, convinced that her daughter's run off with some man.

* * *

"I will kill him," Fish hisses, barely acknowledging her right hand, Butch Gilzean's presence. "I'll play his loyal lackey for now, but when the time comes, _I will kill_ Carmine Falcone, _slowly and painfully._ I wish I'd made that wretched Penguin suffer more." She snatches the rag from Butch, wetting it in the ice-cold water in the bowl on the floor and dabbing carefully at Lazlo's wounds.

* * *

Jaimie and Bullock get out in front of Mooney's nightclub, and Bullock gulps, anxiety showing. Jaimie almost feels bad for him. Almost. When they enter, the club is empty, save for a menacing looking Butch Gilzean, Fish's right-hand man.

"Boss's busy," Butch growls, eyeing them suspiciously, but at that exact moment, Fish Mooney sweeps down the staircase, red dress fluttering slightly.

"No, Butch, I'm never too busy for my favourite detective," she smiles, but it's fixed, her fingers white-knuckled around the base of her cup. "Come, sit with me. I do apologise for that little...incident. Truly, I regret ordering your deaths." She motions to a booth in the corner. She looks at Jaimie, a pitying smile flits across her lips. "You know, Detective Gordon, I believe I misjudged you—though I _am_ slightly disappointed that you turned out not to be the paragon of integrity you pretended to be, getting with the program and killing my _dear_ Penguin." Mooney swirls her drink, a deep burgundy, and asks, "Would either of you like a drink?"

"No, thank you," Jaimie declines, but Bullock gives a hearty yes. Mooney gestures to a waiter, who disappears to the bar before returning with a cup and a bottle of what appears to be vodka and pouring a finger. Bullock looks at the cup dubiously, but the waiter's already left, taking the bottle with him. _Smart move,_ Jaimie congratulates him mentally.

"But now, to business," Mooney claps her hands. "I assume that's what you're here for?"

"Word's that someone's kidnapping street kids," Jaimie says without preamble, "do you know anything about that?"

Mooney taps her chin thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, I _have_ heard rumours that someone in Florida is paying good money for anyone who's young and healthy, but no one knows why, or who the buyer is, though frankly, I doubt anyone cares."

Jaimie bids her goodbyes, politely declining Mooney's offer of alcohol once again and drags Bullock out the door with her, though not before he mouths _same place same time_ to Mooney, and Jaimie _really_ didn't need to hear that.

* * *

As soon as Harvey gets away from his damned partner, Gordon, he phones into the _Gotham Gazette_ and, with glee, anonymously leaks the details of the case. Maybe that'll finally get Gordon fired.

* * *

"What do you mean, _it got leaked to the press_?" Essen paces the room, before turning back around, striding to Jaimie's desk. She slaps the morning's paper, a headline that screams, _**GOTHAM'S CHILDREN GOING MISSING: WHAT IS THE GCPD HIDING?**_

" _It was leaked,_ " Essen growls, "and it could only have been you or Detective Bullock."

"It wasn't me," Jaimie protests. "I value my position too much."

Bullock, too, denies his guilt vehemently.

"I choose to believe you, Gordon," Essen says, "for now. One more slip-up, Gordon, and you're fired, understood?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Good."

"Only three pharmaceutical companies in Gotham stock ATP," Jaimie informs Essen. "We were planning on searching all three of them."

Essen nods, dismissing them.

* * *

The pharmaceutical wholesaler, _Quillan's_ , is lit only with dim lights, forsaking any kind of LEDs, and within, the owner, Morry Quillan, sweeps the floors. He nervously glances at the basement door, behind which he knows lay dozens of children, drugged and slumbering. A cheap thug-for-hire guards the door.

The front door opens and his main clients, Patti and Doug, enter. "We're here for the children," Patti announces.

Quillan gulps. "Th-the recent p-press coverage has turned up-turned up th-the heat. I'll need an-an extra five grand for-for my services."

Patti's face darkens, and she whips out a dart, throwing it with a frighteningly accurate aim at the guard, who makes a startled yelp before falling to the floor, dead, as far as Quillan can tell. She pulls another out of her coat, and he trembles in fear.

Fortunately for Quillan, Doug whispers to Patti that two police officers are about to enter, and Doug pulls Quillan into the alcove next to the basement door while Patti rushes behind the counter.

"Excuse me, can we speak to Mr. Quillan?" Jaimie asks the woman behind the counter, who introduces herself as Patti. _She's_... _a bit jumpy for a receptionist_ , her inner voice notes, and Jaimie can't help but feel a sliver of dread flutter in her gut like a particularly hyperactive butterfly. The feeling only worsens when the "receptionist" leads them to Quillan's office, only to then claim that she'd forgotten that the man was taking a vacation.

Jaimie slips away, quietly walking around the rows of medications, gun in hand. It's when she hears a muffled whine and the sound of a gun's safety being turned off from near a door that she's approaching that she raises her voice and yells, "GCPD, put down your weapons!"

Barely a second later, a man leaps out from the passage that leads down to the basement door and begins shooting. Jaimie ducks and returns fire from behind boxes of medicines, trying to conserve ammo, shooting only to cause fear, not mortal wounds. Patti, who's _definitely_ not a receptionist, comes running, and shoots at Jaimie, forcing her to drop to the ground, a bullet grazing her shoulder, and when she gets back up, both the man and Patti are gone.

Bullock goes after them, but Jaimie stays to search for Quillan. And a good thing she does—a few minutes later, she hears a man—Quillan—whisper to a brute who was just a moment ago passed out on the ground, "Quick—kill the children and dump their bodies in the sewer!"

 _Not on my watch_ , Jaimie thinks grimly and, ignoring her bleeding shoulder, ambushes the two men before the goon can fire at the children, kicking Quill in the back of the knees so he drops to the ground and shooting the goon in the shoulder. Unfortunately for the goon, the force of the bullet sends him screaming as he falls backwards into the open manhole and thus, the sewer.

* * *

Why on earth the Mayor decides, once again, to make a speech at the GCPD baffles Jaimie. Thankfully, Ed is perfectly willing to chat with her about the values of cats over that of dogs. She even gets around to asking the other over for tea or a game of chess or cards sometime when both of them have some free time without the mayor noticing.

"We should probably pay attention," Ed whispers.

"Eh," Jaimie shrugs, "since there's no law against two-hour speeches, I think it's fair to assume that it's also perfectly legal to ignore said speech." The two of them burst into giggles, and Jaimie feels a warm, comfortable ball settle into her chest. _Friendship_. It's a nice feeling. As she tunes back into the speech, she hears Aubrey James end with saying that all of Gotham's homeless children will be taken into the care of the juvenile services.

"Sorry, I have to go," she apologises, making her way to Captain Essen's office, where the mayor is headed.

James seems to be expecting her as he says, "Ah, Detective Gordon!"

"Mayor," she greets frigidly, "You can't possibly think that the people will stand for your usage of these abductions as an excuse to round up the children and throw them into the juvenile equivalent of prison without trial!"

Essen, who's standing next to the door, glares at her, annoyed that Jaimie's not following the unspoken rule of the system, _don't question your superior._

James shrugs. "This is Gotham, the city will be happy with the solution. And frankly, I don't care what you think."

"You're dismissed," Essen snaps.

* * *

Later, Alfred comes to speak to her. "Would you come talk to Master Bruce? I'm at wit's end," he confesses, "I've never raised a child before."

Jaimie huffs a laugh. "What makes you think _I_ have any more knowledge than you?"

"Master Bruce respects you," Alfred counters.

* * *

Selina Kyle, known to most of her associates as Cat, fiddles with her frizzy hair as she's herded into a line to get onto a bus with other street kids to be sent off to juvenile prison.

"Move it," snaps an irate guard, and she pulls her lips back, baring her teeth, tempted to make an attempt at flying away, the feel of the wind under her inky-blue feathers, but then remembers that the last time she tried to fly very far—or high—she got vertigo. She grimaces. _Yeah, not an experience I want to repeat._ Then, she remembers something.

"Hey," she shouts to the guard. "I need to talk to Detective Jim Gordon!"

"Shut your mouth and move!" the guard snarls, and she's shoved into a seat next to two kids who look terrified. She feels a moment of pity.

"Your first time?" Selina asks, and they nod, eyes wide. "Bit of advice that might save your life," she whispers, "Go for their eyes." She looks back down the row to see the guard-

 _Shit._ Her eyes widen in recognition. _Patti_. She tries to leap out of her seat and go for the emergency door in the back, only to find it locked and barred, and before she can do anything, the barrel of a gun's pressed to the back of her head.

"Next one of you rats to stand up gets a bullet in the face," Patti warns the children sitting in mute terror.

* * *

"Bus number twelve is missing," Sarah Essen informs the mayor, watching in concealed glee as the colour drains out of his face.

"Tell me it wasn't the abductors," he begs, voice hoarse.

She tries not to look smug that his mistake has caught up to him. "It may very well be, in which case, you'll be crucified by the press, and not just for sending them off without a trial, but also for essentially delivering them to the people that they were just liberated from."

The mayor begins to pace, before turning to her. "Well? Then what are you waiting for? Find them!"

* * *

The pages of the phone book flutter and Quillan groans in pain. A second later, the book connects once again with flesh, and Quillan screams, cowering. Jaimie looks on from where she stands next to the desk behind the two-sided mirror, stone-faced.

"I swear I don't know anything else!" Quillan begs. "Please, I swear!"

Bullock raises a brow. "See my partner there, Detective Gordon?" Quillan nods, mute. "She's usually gentler with scum like you. Do you wanna guess why she isn't raisin' a finger ta stop me?" Quillan shakes his head.

Jaime replies, face devoid of all emotion, "It's easy—you do the math. Thirty kids are worth more than one scumbag like you."

Bullock grins, raising the phone book again.

"Wait!" Quillan yelps, "I do remember _one_ thing—the truck they were driving when they came to get the kids, it had a distinctive logo: a fork over a blue plate. I didn't want to mention it, cause, y'know, it's a gruesome idea that their fates might be-" He screams, terrified as Bullock raises the phone book again, but Jaimie steps next to the man and, grimacing at the physical contact internally, places a hand on his shoulder to make him stop.

She pulls out a pad of paper and a pen she grabbed from the desk. "We need you to draw that logo," she orders.

* * *

Doug and Patti watch the children like hawks as they're herded into the storage container. However, after they've all filed in, Doug frowns.

"There's one missing," he notes, and Patti goes to check the bus, looking under and between each of the row of seats, but in the end, she shrugs and returns to her partner's side. "Huh," Doug scratches his head. "Must've been a miscount—doesn't matter though, thirty children're more than enough." The two grin and high five.

"The Dollmaker'll be pleased," Patti comments, not noticing the small, darkly dressed girl crouching atop a shipping container behind them.

* * *

"Nope," Ed says, popping the p, then accidentally knocks over her cup, spilling some coffee on Jaimie, flustering as she apologises. Jamie waves off her apology—she has extra shirts in her locker. Ed continues, "We don't have any logos filed that match your description of a fork and a plate, sorry."

Jaimie sighs, closing her eyes for a second. Then her eyes snap open, an idea popping into her head.

"Are there any with a trident?" she asks, and Ed clicks the copyrighted logos in Gotham file on the computer, scanning it for a second.

"Oh!" she exclaims. "There is—Trident Shipping Co. And, they have a shipment to Florida scheduled at two this afternoon!"

"Thanks, Ed," Jaimie says, glancing at the clock, which shows one-thirty. "I owe you one!"

"Yeah," Ed sighs, watching the Detective race away, "no problem."

Mirror Ed grins, distorted slightly by the textured window pane, singing, _I threw a wish into a well, Don't ask me for I'll never tell, I looked to you as it fell-_

"Shut _up_ ," Ed snaps, "I will _not_ let you hurt Dete—Jaimie."

The darkly suited version of her laughs, high-pitched and taunting, _That's what you said_ last _time—and we both know how_ that _turned out, don't we? I'll get to her in the end if you don't._

" _Shut up!_ " Ed roars, and, laughing darkly, Mirror Ed shimmers out of view.

* * *

One of the guards cranks the lever, shearing the container.

"Remember," Patti orders its handlers, "handle it _gently_ , and if _any_ of the cargo is damaged...well," she chuckles darkly. "Let's just say you'll be lucky if our client decides to kill you." The handler, a small, wiry man, shivers and nods frantically. Suddenly, a scream erupts from a few containers away. After a few minutes, one of the guards, Sampson or Sanders or something similar, stumbles in, clutching his face, blood streaming down it. Patti nearly throws up when she realises that the man's eyes have been clawed out. Nearly. "Don't worry," she soothes the shaking man, drawing her gun. "It's just a scratch; we'll get you to the hospital and they'll fix you right up." She turns off the safety as she speaks, and as soon as that's done, shoots him in the head.

She gestures to Doug, and they split up. She takes the left, walking softly between the shipping containers, calling, quietly, "Heeeeere, kitty-kitty-kitty." She hears a skittering on the container to her right, and whips around. In a corner, with no way to escape, is a girl with frizzy hair and aviator goggles. Patti grins triumphantly, about to shoot-

Someone knocks her to the ground, wrestling the gun out of her hands and handcuffs her. She snarls when she sees it's the detective from the pharmacy. The other tsks, picking the gun up and taking out the bullets. "Didn't your parents ever teach you not to play with weapons?"

Selina grins.

* * *

Jaimie arrives at Wayne Manor in time for tea, a lavish, five-course affair.

"Thank goodness you're here, Detective," Alfred says, "Master Bruce's been intentionally hurting himself, hardly sleeping, and, to make matters worse, what little sleep he _does_ get is plagued by nightmares." The butler wrings his hands.

Jaimie asks, "Have you suggested he see a psychiatrist?"

"Of course!" Alfred replies, "he refuses every time—and I made a promise to his father that I'd raise him as he would've, had he lived: trusting Bruce to choose his own path."

Bruce, who, unbeknownst to the two, has been listening to the entire conversation from the doorway, says, "I know Alfred wants you to talk some sense into me, Detective." He crosses the room, presenting his blistered hand to her. "I haven't been hurting myself—just testing my boundaries," he says, answering the unspoken question.

Jaimie blinks. "What you're going through is normal, given the situation you're in, and talking to someone can really help," she encourages.

"Did it help you get over your war experiences?" Bruce asks.

"Sometimes," Jaimie fibs, thinking of how she stormed out and never returned after the fifth session.

Bruce smiles. "You're a terrible liar, Detective. I wish to commend your rescue of the kidnapped children." Bruce fingers the hem of his shirt, and asks, "Could I write you a cheque to pass on to them?"

Jaimie grimaces. "This is Gotham—it doesn't work that way. Money won't buy the children someone to care for them the way that Alfred cares for you."

"Well then, at least allow me to donate new clothing to them—they looked very ragged," Bruce replies.

* * *

Back at the station, Ed and Jaimie help to herd the rescued children towards the correct social service workers, watching on fondly as the children fiddle with the fabric of their clothes, awe on their faces.

In a corner, an officer tries to cajole Selina into following the rest of the children. "I'm. Not. _Going,_ " she stresses, stubbornly refusing to move "I need to speak with Detective Gordon." The officer throws his hands up in frustration.

"You have to, kid, you're thirteen and you have no relatives, I can't just let you back onto the street!" the officer's exasperation is clearly visible.

Selina glances around, then, stretching and arching her spine, addresses the officer. "Officer, you have to three to get Detective Gordon before I scream that you tried to molest me." The officer looks a mix of doubtful, shocked, and confused, so, to get her point across, she begins counting. "One...two..." it seems to get the point across, as the officer hastily gets up off of the bench and bolts away, just as she opens her mouth to scream.

A little later, the Detective appears. "Detective Gordon," she says, "I'm Selina—or Cat, if you prefer. I know you're investigating the Wayne murder, and that you ain't like the rest of the crooks that're the GCPD-" she raises her hand to stop the Detective's protests. "I can tell you who killed the Waynes, 'cuz I saw the man who did it—if you get me out of juvie."

* * *

Osvalda lays inside the trailer, maps of Gotham she's found wedged into various parts of the trailer tacked onto the ceiling, pictures of the various major players in Gotham's underworld pinned to their respective turfs. The most prominent are Falcone, Mooney, and Maroni's—they're the only ones she'll need to take out to ensure her place as Queen of Gotham.

She smiles, jaggedly, and ignores the twinge of pain from her still-healing leg. The cramped interior of the trailer makes her claustrophobia—a trait shared by most _homo avis—_ act up, making her itch to go and take a flight. Osvalda doesn't though—this close to Gotham, she might be recognized, and her survival instinct is stronger than her urge to stretch her wings. Briefly, she wonders what Jaimie's wings look like—the shadow of them was unmistakable when the Detective used them to cover her movements. Perhaps they're a regal, iridescent blue and rusty red of a kingfisher's, or the powdery grey-blue of a Victoria Crowned pigeon's.

She falls asleep with a smile on her face.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Title: Veni, vidi, vici_**

 ** _Author: OnyxSphynx_**

 ** _Beta: Radpineapple_**

 ** _Rating: T_**

 ** _Warnings: Canon-typical violence, language. Content may not be suitable for younger audiences._**

* * *

Osvalda steps of the bus, breathing deeply. As she walks down the street, she sees a young child bump into an adult, snatching their wallet as they part. She grins. _Ah, Gotham!_

She glances into a store's window, and one of the TVs catches her attention. It's a news channel, and the news anchor is shouting over a crowd. "-businessman Ronald Danzer, is out on bail, awaiting trial for a Ponzi scheme that swindled Gotham's citizens of half a billion dollars—as you can see, they're not pleased-" Osvalda tuts— _Stupid man. If you're going to rob someone, make sure that they're happy about it—or at least, make them_ think _they're happy about it._

* * *

"Bribe them or threaten them—I don't care, just make sure I get off!" Danzer roars into his phone at the attorney, and stabs the "end call" button violently. He begins to pace around his pent-house living-room. He's on house arrest as he waits for the date of the trial, as well as for his own safety. Despite the knowledge that the citizens of Gotham will gladly strangle him, he feels no regret or shame at his action—if anything, the only thought that goes through his mind about the entire situation is: _I should have killed the witnesses instead of bribing them._

Frustrated, he grabs his coffee mug and chucks it across the room. It shatters, ceramic pieces flying in every direction. _I need a strong drink._ Danzer puts on a tee shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and a wide-brimmed sun-hat, pulling it down to hide his face, and uses the apartment building's back exit to skirt the journalists camped outside the front door and in the main lobby.

Suddenly, he feels a tug on his sleeve. He glances around, catching sight of a figure in a pig's mask tending to an ice-cream cart, who asks, "Ronald Danzer?" Danzer stiffens, but the pig-masked-person takes it as an assent, and, lightning-fast, loops a rope around his arm and knots it.

"Hey-! What're you-?" the masked figure opens the cabinet in the back of the ice-cream stand and a giant, peach-coloured sphere balloons into existence, dragging Danzer up by the rope tied to his wrist. " _Help!_ " He screams in pain, and the journalists, who see him, recognising him as Ronald Danzer, leap to catch it on camera as the balloon drags the writhing man higher and higher into the sky.

* * *

"Gordon! C'mere!" Bullock's shouting almost causes her to trip and send the stack of papers—and paperwork—she's carrying to nearly scatter all over the stairs.

"What?" She snaps crossly at her partner once she gets to her desk, setting down the papers.

"No need to be huffy," he snips, "I just want you to meet Lieutenant Bill Cranston—help you further your career, but don't _thank_ me or anything." She looks up to see none other than the infamous lieutenant Cranston himself. They've met before, though Jaimie doubts he remembers it—it was at a bar, and he had been sloshed and hitting on her, ignoring her firm replies that she didn't swing that way, and even if she did, she had said _no,_ so leave it. In the end, she wound up having to punch him before he left her alone. No, she doesn't like Bill Cranston.

"Ah, Detective Gordon!" Cranston's smile is oily and his beady eyes dart across her body in a way that makes her uncomfortable.

"Lieutenant Cranston, I presume?" She struggles to keep her voice neutral, but Cranston doesn't seem to notice. He asks her about how she interrogates suspects and regales her with graphic descriptions of how he employs his Chamber of Commerce award—gained for "honourable years of service to the people" and if that isn't bullshit she doesn't know what is—to, well. Thinking about it makes Jaimie queasy, and she reads some gruesome case files.

Thankfully, he's called away soon after, and Bullock glares at his own pile of paperwork. "Why can't you do both of ours?" he whines, and the implied _you, as a woman, should carry the burden silently_ enrages her.

"You're a damned adult, Bullock, do your own paperwork—I'm not your maid," she replies bitingly. He huffs and shoves his pile to the side of his desk, pulling out the newspaper and eying the headline.

"Whoever killed Danzer did Gotham a favour," he comments. "I won't break a sweat catching him. That man was one of the most corrupt in the city." His lip curls in disdain.

 _As if_ you're _one to talk,_ she thinks.

"Gordon?" another officer taps her shoulder, "there's someone asking to see you—said they're from the juvenile services."

"Thank you," she replies, "Bullock, I'll be back in a bit—don't overheat your brain as you try and understand the case file without someone's help, it's far above your reading level."

The Juvenile Services person, a shorter man with a receding hairline, introduces himself as Davis Lamond, and asks, "You're _certain_ you want to adopt her? Older adoptees present _unique_ challenges-"

"What am I, a virtual pet?" Selina interrupts.

Jaimie glares at the girl disapprovingly.

"Yes, I am certain I want to adopt Ms. Kyle," Jaimie assures.

Lamond pulls out two pieces of paper from his file. "Sign here, here, and here, and you're good to go—we already did a background check on you," he added, handing her the papers and a pen. "Right, you keep a copy and the Juvenile Services keeps the other—for record purposes and such." He adjusts his cuffs, and nods to Jaimie and Selina. "Good day, Detective, Ms. Kyle." The sounds of his footsteps fade off into the distance, leaving Selina and Jaimie alone with each other.

"I'm not calling you 'Mom'," Selina pipes up after a few minutes of silence, breaking the oppressive atmosphere.

Jaimie laughs, shakes her head. "Nah, Jaimie'll do just fine. Frankly, it'd be a bit weird, seeing as how I know you are just as, if not more, mature and competent than lots of GCPD officers," she confesses, drawing a smile to the girl's lips. "So, how does it feel to be out of the juvenile system?"

"What's it like to be an official parent?" Selina counters.

"Touché," she acknowledges, starts to say something, then grimaces. "I have to speak with Bullock about a case."

Selina hums sympathetically. "So you don't like him much either?"

"Gee, what _ever_ gave you _that_ impression?" Jaimie asks sarcastically. "No, I simply _adore_ the man. Not. He can go burn in the deepest circles of Hell."

"I'll remember to never cross _you_ ," Selina notes. "Can't you request a different partner?"

She grimaces. "Not until I become a senior Detective, which is two more years, or until Bullock dies, sadly. Anyway, I should go—I'll be back in a few minutes, so don't torment the other officers."

"I'd never," Selina exclaims, wide-eyed. The innocent act is somewhat spoilt by the fact that she steals Alvarez's driver's ID when the man brushes past her. Jaimie rolls her eyes and takes it back, placing it in the lost and found tray.

"Be good, and we'll get ice cream after," Jaimie promises.

Bullock is snoozing, hat pulled over his face, and startles, almost falling out of his chair when Jaimie snaps her fingers in front of his face. "Find out where weather balloons are sold," she orders, "The killer can't have bought them from Walmart."

"But Walmart has _everything_ ," he mutters sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

"Not weather balloons—you need a licence to sell them," she replies, already turning on her heel to retrieve Selina before any more items go mysteriously "missing"

A while later, the two stroll down the sidewalk, ice cream cones in hand. Jaimie's is a modest, two scoop, liquorice and vanilla affair. Beside her, Selina practically skips, indigo tucked loosely at her back, meticulously licking her three bubblegum blue scoops, hot fudge and sprinkles dotting it. Selina already showed her the alley, explaining how she'd hidden in the fire escape and watched the entire thing unfold.

"I followed him," she admits. "Morbid curiosity or what, I dunno. He did take the ski mask of eventually, though. He looked older, with grey hair," she frowns, thinking. "Oh! That's right! He had to answer his phone—he referred to the caller as 'M'Lady', if that helps, and said something about a philosopher and matches." She shrugs.

"I'll look into those names," Jaimie replies. "But you'll need to stay in my apartment while I'm on a shift, seeing as how you aren't in school."

" _Fiiiine_ ," Selina whines. "Can I bring my cats? They're all shelter cats, so they're vaccinated and fixed," she pleads.

"Alright, but you have to care for them," Jaimie warns. "Be glad that I own the flat," she adds. "I doubt that any sane landlord in Gotham would allow pets. I also have a few books, if you wish to amuse yourself."

"Yay!" Selina cheers, "it's gonna be _awesome_!"

* * *

"Will you...be alright? Plan-planing against Falcone can get you hurt," Lazlo says, in a moment of lucidity.

"Shh," Fish whispers to him, cleaning his wounds. He whimpers in pain, slipping in and out of consciousness. "Rest," she says, softly, brushing his hair from his clammy forehead. A knock on the door alerts her to a presence outside of her door, and she quickly distances herself from the bed, an emotionless mask slipping into place. "Come in."

The door opens part way, and Butch sticks his head in. "You've got visitors, boss."

"You served them our, ah... _special_ , I trust?" she asks. The special she's referring to is her own little cocktail of truth drugs, a formula concocted and sold to her at a steep price by the now-deceased Karen Crane—unfortunately for her, Fish had found that leaving any loose ends meant that her competitors could learn her secrets, so she set fire to the Crane home's second floor, and, as she had predicted, Karen's husband, Johnathan's pyrophobia had prevented him from rescuing her. It's a failsafe, used on all customers wanting to make a business interaction to make sure they aren't lying—something she learnt the hard way after one of Maroni's men, disguised as a potential partner tried to assassinate her.

"Yes, boss," Butch replies. "And they're ready to pay for the info."

"Good," she smiles. "Then we can conduct our business in my booth. And Butch?"

He turns to her, awaiting further instruction.

"Get rid of Lazlo. He's lost his spine. And I'm afraid that Falcone's newest lover will be in a horrific accident tomorrow." She brushes past him, making her way down the stairs.

Her visitors are Detectives Alan and Montoya, both of whose eyes are glazed slightly, a sign that the special is working. "We're here about Cobblepot's death," Montoya starts, speaking slowly.

"I didn't think anyone cared about that cripple," Fish is truly surprised, but it fades at Alan's answer.

"We aren't," he says flatly. "We only need the info to get Jaimie Gordon convicted."

"How much are you willing to pay?" she asks, intrigued. She doesn't bear (much) ill will towards Gordon, but, well, business is business, and sacrifices must be made.

"Two favours, no questions asked," Montoya replies, and Fish raises an eyebrow. They must really want Gordon convicted.

"Three," she bargains, and they agree to her offer. "Rumor on the street has it that Gordon executed Cobblepot on Falcone's orders."

* * *

A hand reaches out and tugs Osvalda into the alleyway she's passing and she panics, hand going for the blade hidden in her coat. After a second, she stills her hand, remembering that if she reveals her weapon now, the larger man—one of Fish Mooney's low-level grunts—will easily overpower her.

"The boss'll pay good money for your hide," he grins, "you must be stupid to come back to Gotham—practically suicidal." His grip on her wrist is tight, but he's made a vital error—he's forgotten to restrain her other arm, and to check her for weapons. As soon as the man turns to pull out his phone, Osvalda pulls out her blade, and, clamping her hand over his mouth, stabs him in the back.

After a few minutes, the man lets out a wet gurgle and falls limply to the ground. Osvalda rifles through the man's coat, wiping the blood on her hands onto the outside of the coat and pulls out his wallet.

 _Aha!_

Within, there are four fifty-dollar bills—not much, but she'll make do. She spots a food truck a bit down the street after half limping, half strolling for a while. "One tuna sandwich," she requests, and the man turns to prep it.

"You new to Gotham?" he asks curiously, seeing her awkward posture.

"No," she smiles, paying for the sandwich. "No, no, I'm returning from a long, enlightening trip."

As he waves her off, the man can't help but feel a slight coldness that makes him shiver. He shrugs it off. _Must just be the wind._

* * *

"Hah!" Bruce exclaims, parrying Alfred's cane and giving as good as he gets. Alfred leaps forward, forcing Bruce back. He narrowly avoids knocking the back of his knees against the sofa, but knocks his elbow against the side table. The files fall off, fluttering open, paper flying every which way.

Alfred places his cane down and picks up a paper. "Master Bruce, this is your parents' case file." It's a statement more than a question, and Bruce simply nods. "Why would you want to look at such—such _violent_ images?"

"I'm looking for clues," Bruce responds, setting down his own cane to gather the papers and reaches for the paper in the butler's hands.

Alfred moves it out of his reach. "Detective Gordon is already looking into it," he reminds the boy.

"And how likely do you think she is to solve it?" Bruce retorts. The man falls silent, and Bruce takes the paper from Alfred's grip.

* * *

Jaimie returns from dropping off Selina and her cats at her flat. She's about to make her way to her desk when Montoya and Alan corner her. Montoya's wearing a perfume that causes her nose to twitch and Jaimie notices a band of gold and gemstones on her left ring finger. "Congratulations," she says coolly, dips her head and turns to leave.

"We're not done with you," Montoya grips her arm, "we know you killed Osvalda Cobblepot."

Jaimie pries her fingers off. "I most certainly did not. And if I had, you have no evidence."

Alan sneers. "I know you're lying."

"We'll get you convicted," Montoya promises, leans in close to her ear and whispers, " _raven._ "

Jaimie flinches and rips her arm out of the other's grip. "Good _day,_ " she snaps frigidly, ignoring the heads that turn at her raised voice.

"Geez, quit pacing, Gordon," Bullock growls, exasperation in his tone. "There's no evidence that you _did_ kill her."

"Leave it," Jaimie snarls. "We have a man to question regardless—Alan and Montoya don't matter at this point. If I am convicted, well, I'll burn that bridge when I get to it."

"Fine," Bullock rolls his eyes. "Your soul must be as black as your wings—you don't even feel a shred of guilt."

Jaimie glares, the want to strangle the bastard growing. "What's his name?"

"Jimmy Wilkes," Bullock replies. "Man owns the only weather-balloon company in Gotham."

The two enter the questioning room, and Jamie pulls up the chair opposite to where the man sits on the other side of the desk.

"Have any of your balloons gone missing recently?" she asks.

"Yeah—as a matter of fact, there was this kid, kinda shifty. Carl Smikers, his name was, high school dropout," Jimmy says. "He had, ah, fidgety fingers, if you get what I mean. He quit the day the balloons went missing."

"Balloons, plural?" Jaimie asks sharply.

Jimmy nods. "Four of 'em, went missing 'bout a week ago."

 _Shit_ , she thinks, and Bullock seems to have come to the same conclusion: _That means there're three more people the Balloonman is planning on offing._ "Thank you, Mr. Wilkes," she says, "That'll be all."

* * *

Cranston wipes his hand on his handkerchief and tucks it into his pocket. "That should teach you to bring in less than promised," he sneers at the wimping drug dealer, his face bruised and bloody, and spits at the man. Turning around, he strides away, confidant that the incident won't repeat itself.

As he starts walking back to his flat, a masked vendor ambushes him from an alley, snapping a set of handcuffs around his wrist. Instantly, Cranston elbows his assailant and manages to subdue the masked man. He leans over and rifles through the figure's pockets, looking for some sort of ID—a driver's license or similar, but the masked man manages to attach a second cuff to his ankle. A few seconds later, Cranston's dragged up into the air by his ankle, screaming for help.

* * *

"Master Bruce," Alfred tuts, seeing his untouched plate of food, "You really _must_ eat something, especially in times like these—you need to keep up your strength."

Bruce hums noncommittally, eyes flickering over the morning paper open in his lap. "Sorry, what'd you say, Alfred?" he asks, tearing his gaze away. Alfred lets out an exasperated huff. Lately, the boy's been distant and absent-minded.

Alfred snatches the paper from his hands, replacing it with a plate of food. " _Eat,_ " he instructs, irately. "You'll be of no use solving _anything_ if you don't keep up your health."

Bruce protests weakly before Alfred's threat of strapping him to a chair and force-feeding him halts further arguments. Alfred watches him like a hawk, ensuring that he eats the entire omelette. "Good," he says, decisively. "I trust you'll be in the Tea Room for tea." The unspoken _"or else"_ hangs in the air behind him as he leaves.

* * *

"So this guy's got two more people he plans on ganking?" Selina's question drifts across the room's comfortable silence from where she lazes on her back in the late-afternoon sun-beams with Nightshade, a dainty black cat with blue eyes, draped across her, purring like some sort of black puddle of melted feline.

From where she's sat at her desk, Jaimie ponders if it's worth scolding the girl for reading the file, and ultimately decides against it as that it'll just drive her to enact some sort of petty revenge. "Mmm," she settles on instead, neither agreeing nor denying it.

Selina blinks half-lidded eyes, stretching. "I can see where they're coming from, though," she says, and, honestly, so can Jaimie.

She finishes the last page of paperwork and tips her chair back so it's balancing on two legs, because, really, her inner child never got over not being able to do that in school. "I think we all can. Gotham, is, well, corrupt." She doesn't try and sugar-coat it, because, frankly, there's no point. "The GCPD officers are bribed into turning a blind eye to most crime, so it's understandable that someone finally snapped and started getting rid of criminals their own way. To be honest, Gotham's probably the least safe place to live—and yet, here we are." She moves the stack into her bag before Nutmeg can tip them off the table, the tawny kitten looking up at her balefully.

Selina laughs softly. "We're _all_ mad in Gotham, I suppose."

* * *

"This needs to be wrapped up," Essen snaps, "The papers are starting to turn sympathetic towards the perpetrator." She draws her hand through her hair, sighs slightly. "Do either of you know who the next victims might be?"

Bullock opens his mouth, and Jaimie prepares herself for the worst. "If they fit the profiles of the last two, then they'll be well known and outwardly model citizens but well-known to be corrupt." _Huh._ It's not as moronic as what she was expecting.

"This is Gotham—that hardly narrows it down," Essen retorts bitterly, and mutters under her breath, "God, I need a stiff drink." Jaimie can't say she blames her.

* * *

"Ah, Monsieur Maroni! Welcome, welcome! So pleasing to see you!" Bamonte's Italian manager's jovial tone is easily heard in the kitchens, as it's near closing time and there's no-one in the building besides the manager, Antonio Bamonte, and Osvalda, who's washing the dishes. It's not the best job, but beggars can't be choosers, as the saying goes.

She moves closer to the open door, catching snippets of the Don's conversation. "Arkham is...Falcone...weak, vulnerable, we can..." The only word that means anything to her is Falcone, but Maroni catches her listening out of the corner of his eye, says something to his henchman and makes his way over to her.

"What's your name?" Maroni asks, and the fear on her face is almost reflected in her emotions, if not for the fact that during her time as Fish Mooney's Umbrella Girl, Osvalda acquired some information that will be key to making her way to the top.

"Rosalind, sir." _And like the rose, I too have thorns that will draw blood_. It's her German grandmother's name, a photo of whom her mother keeps in a treasured locket.

"You don't _look_ German," Maroni notes, and Osvalda is honestly surprised that the man knows the name's origin. Perhaps she'll need to be cautious of the man—underestimating him would end in, if she's lucky, a fairly quick death.

"From my mother's side, sir," she replies, keeping her eyes down. Mob bosses are like dogs—eye contact means aggression. "That is the heritage which I choose to claim." _As if I know any other_ , she thinks bitterly, _Father dearest is six feet under for all I know, and Mother refuses to tell me anything of him._

"Ah!" Maroni claps a hand on her shoulder, hard enough to send daggers of pain down her leg. "I approve of a child who cares for their mother. I was like you, once," he confides. "Poor, unknown, but I worked hard—and look at me now!"

 _Second best,_ her mind sneer _s, I will be the best. I will rule Gotham as it's Queen, Jaimie Gordon by my side._

Maroni's gaze sharpens, fingers digging into her shoulder. "Do the words Arkham or Falcone mean anything to you, girl?"

"I have no clue what you mean sir—I heard nothing," she placates. It seems to please him as a second later the grip loosens and Maroni lifts his hand. Maroni turns on the TV, switching to the news channel.

"-Cardinal Quinn, on trial for charges of child molestation, was just half an hour ago, spotted rising into the air, tethered to a balloon," the news anchor on-screen reports. "It would appear that the Balloonman, Gotham's mysterious vigilante, has struck again."

Maroni sighs, shaking his head. "This sort of vigilante activity is bad for business—you can't go around murdering priests, at least, not in public." He laughs, and Osvalda echoes it. Maroni pulls out his wallet, and places two hundred dollar bills into Osvalda's hand. "Hurry home and make sure your mother is doing well," he instructs, and Osvalda, knowing a dismissal when she hears one, scurries away.

* * *

"I swear, I had nothing to do with it! I just sold the balloons to make some money!" Smikers cowers in fear, voice cracking. "I swear!" he pleads. "I didn't do it!"

Bullock sneers at him, disbelieving. "Yes, and you're a _secret criminal mastermind,_ seein' as how the Balloonman's come up with the perfect crime—you dispose of the bodies and the balloons in one go, nice 'n' easy. Kill two ravens with one stone." Jaimie nearly flinches, remembers that Bullock'll notice, his head turned to her and the words he's just uttered hovering in the air, sarcasm dripping off of them.

Smikers looks confused. "What?" he asks. "No, I may be a dunce, but I did learn from working with Jimmy that the balloons'll come down eventually—as they rise higher into the air, the helium inside expands and the balloon turns brittle from the cold air, and eventually the balloon pops."

* * *

Mauricia tugs on the leash, pulling her poodle, Saide, away from a cat. "Tsk, tsk," she admonishes. "Honestly, I don't know what's gotten into you lately—why, the other day you tried to bite Kristen! The poor girl was terrified!" She ignores the dog's anxious yipping. Agitatedly, Sadie whines, leaping up and pointing her muzzle to the sky. Mauricia looks up, gasps, and a second later, crumples to the ground as a stiff, frozen body plummets down on top of her.

* * *

When she arrives at the scene, Bullock is pacing around, inspecting the two bodies. One is an old woman, blood crusted from the graze in her head from hitting the pavement. On top of her is the frozen, barely recognisable form of Lieutenant Cranston. Personally, Jaimie thinks he looks better that way.

"There's been another victim," she tells Bullock without any preamble. "Cardinal Quinn—a prominent member of the Roman-Catholic church. He was facing charges for sexually abusing children until the charges were mysteriously dropped." Bullock frowns, and she can see the gears whirring it his mind. A tap on her shoulder draws her attention away from the older Detective. "Ed!" she exclaims, surprised.

The forensic analyst smiles nervously, but it makes her whole face light up. "Det—Jaimie! Just who I was looking for! I was just about to start my lunch break over at the café just across the street, thought I'd pop over and see if I could help, and, what do you know," she passes Jaimie an evidence bag. Within is a paper with her signature. It looks oddly familiar... _Oh!_ It clicks.

"I know who the Balloonman is!" she exclaims. "Thank you, Ed! Remember to eat something!" she calls over her shoulder, racing back to the precinct, Bullock following behind her.

Ed watches as De—Jaimie races off, admires the way the sun turning her hair honey-coloured. The Detective isn't like anyone she's met before—she seems to radiate a sort of aura of goodness. She's a truly good person, a rarity in Gotham, a diamond amongst coal, and just as strong. She's magnificent. Ed sighs slights, a soft smile tugging at her lips. Distantly, a part of her wonders if she's in too deep, but she's too occupied to care.

* * *

"Aha!" Jaimie exclaims, ignoring Essen's foot taping on the other side of the room pulling out a file from her desk. "Davis Lamond—Gotham Juvenile Services employee for fifteen years."

Bullock scratches his head. "What does that have to do with the paper though?" he gestures to the evidence bag.

Jaimie sighs. _I guess it was going to come out sometim_ e. "I adopted Selina Kyle—that's Lamond's copy of the form. Cranston most likely found it when he was searching for an ID," she tells him quietly.

There's a moment of silence before Bullock laughs cruelly. "Why would anyone allow someone like _you_ to adopt?" he asks, making sure to keep his voice down.

"Because, unlike you, _some_ people are more concerned with giving children who are wards of the state a decent home." It comes out more venomously that she intends, making Bullock take a step back.

"Chill," he mutters.

She takes a deep breath, opens the file, turns and addresses the Captain. "His coworkers describe him as sweet, dedicated and motivated."

"What would have caused someone like that to snap and start killing people?" Essen wonders, and Jaimie shrugs helplessly.

"I have no clue."

* * *

The old Juvenile Services HQ building is abandoned, cobwebbed, the ideal place for someone to store something without suspicion. It's also condemned, which generally keeps people away. They circle the perimeter cautiously, quietly. There's no need to alert Lamond to their presence. It's in the back, right outside of garage—which is hidden by what appears to once have been a well-maintained hedge—that they find a van.

In the back is the fourth weather balloon, deflated, but easily recognizable. Jaimie takes a step forward, about to inspect it from a closer vantage, when a muffled yelp from Bullock makes her whip around, gun drawn.

It's Lamond, a handgun in his hand, the barrel pressed to Bullock's head. "What crime am I guilty of, killing men like Cranston, Quinn, and Danzer?" Lamond's voice is different from when she first talked to him. It's sharper, more unhinged... _deranged_ , even.

"The law is supposed to punish those mens' crimes." Before the last syllable passes her lips Lamond is laughing disbelievingly, and Jaimie can't blame him. The words echo hollowly, turn to ash in her mouth—they aren't true.

"The law _shields_ men like them from justice," Lamond scoffs, once his bout of laughter passes. The gun's slipped slightly, and he readjusts it in his hand. "I've watched, silently, for seventeen _years_ as the corruption in this city's festered, doing nothing, _until_ Mayor James used his power corruptly to use the excuse of the homeless childrens' abduction to lock up all of the street kids in juvenile prison without trial." He bares his teeth. In his passionate speech, though, he's failed to notice Bullock moving, and that's his mistake.

Bullock twists out of his grip, leaps forward. It's a blur—it all happens so quickly, Jaimie isn't sure if she remembers what occurs—but somehow, Bullock manages to attach the final balloon to Lamond, and Jaimie grabs the man's leg, tries to weigh the balloon down. It works, sort of. The balloon's ascent is slowed significantly, but within a few minutes, they're already five feet off of the ground.

"Just let go of him, Gordon!" Bullock shouts, and for a moment, she's tempted, before she remembers what she said to Lamond.

"No!" she refuses, and when five more minutes have passed—twenty-five feet now—Bullock gives in and shoots the balloon. As soon as the bullet hits it, she and Lamond plummet to the ground, Jamie landing on top, and there's a painful-sounding _crunch_ from Lamond.

She gets to her feet, slightly unsteadily, and checks Lamond's pulse. It's strong, beating regularly, and she lets out a sigh of relief; Jaimie has enough blood on her hands as it is, and she doesn't want any more red on her ledger. "He's alive," she reports to Bullock, who doesn't seem too happy, but he nods anyway. She cheks Lamond's neck, wincing when she feels the way one his vertebrae has a traumatic fracture. Nothing's bleeding, though, aside from some grazes he's acquired from the fall, so she cuffs his hands behind his back and arranges him so as to alleviate the pressure on his neck.

By the time the ambulance gets there, Lamond's blinking to consciousness, whimpering slightly when the injury registers. Jaimie drags Bullock to tell the EMTs what happened and then goes to make sure that Lamond doesn't try to escape.

"That's a nasty one," an EMT comments as he and his partner carefully put a neck brace around the man's neck, and then they load him into the back on a stretcher.

"More vigilantes will follow in my path," Lamond calls.

Before they can close the doors, she makes her way over to Lamond. "Who was your last target?" she asks. She's partially curious—who else would he have targeted? There are many, many corrupt people in Gotham, and Jaimie wonders which one he chose as his last target.

"It doesn't matter now, does it?" Lamond replies, and an EMT closes the doors, leaving his last words hanging in the air.

* * *

"Fish, my dear, I hope there are no hard feelings between us?" Falcone asks her, and it's all Fish can do to not stab him with the knife she's using to cut her steak. It would probably end up with her death, as Falcone has, not-so-subtly, positioned one of his men in each of the corners of the room. Instead, she smiles, keeps her breaths steady.

"Never." Her lie is one that slips off of her tongue easily—lying has always been her forté, something that helped her rise through the ranks of Gotham's underworld to where she is now.

He watches her with a calculating gaze—it unsettles her in its similarity to the Cobblepot girl's, but not as intense—but accepts her answer. "Natalia was mugged," he says, apropos of nothing, and her mind races, _he wasn't supposed to discover that yet,_ "With ugly results."

"Oh my," she stops, fork halfway to her mouth, feigns concern. "My condolences. I hope the mugger paid with their life."

Falcone nods. "That he will, as soon as he is found—along with anyone who aided him." His reply sends daggers of icy terror to her heart, and she struggles to stay calm. She reassures herself that her execution of Natalia's death left no leads to her, but that doesn't stop her from double checking the shadows for the rest of the night.

* * *

"You're bleeding," Selina remarks when Jaimie opens the door that night. It's only then that she realizes that there's a trail of blood on her cheek.

"Oh."

Selina sighs, shakes her head. "One of these days, you're going to get stabbed and not realize it and bleed out," she warns, "which would be awful for me, so make sure to check yourself for injuries."

Jaimie laughs, rolls her eyes and makes her way over to the kitchen sink and rinses the wound carefully. "What should we get for dinner?" Usually, she makes a stew or puts something on to cook in the crockpot, but for the last few days, she hasn't had time.

"Chinese," Selina responds instantly, eyes sparkling.

Jaimie doesn't even protest that it won't be anything like authentic Chinese food. "You'll have to order though—I need to take a shower. You know where the phonebook is," she tosses over her shoulder, goes to grab a towel and a set of pyjamas. Behind her, Selina mutters about how old-fashioned she is, and flips through the pages of the phonebook.

After a quick shower to scrub off the dirt and blood and ease her aching muscles, she turns the water off and prepares herself for the cold that will hit her as soon as she opens the shower door. Well, better get it over with quickly. Jaimie shivers, grabs her towel from where it's folded on the closed toilet lid, and dries off, pulls on a grey shirt and sweat-pants. Thankfully, her hair, being relativly short, doesn't stay wet for ages as it would if it were longer, despite being fairly thick.

The aroma of food wafts in as she opens the bathroom door. Selina's already sitting at the coffee table, digging into a box of fried rice with a spoon. She swallows a bite. "I got you spring rolls and potstickers, " she says, gesturing to the two unopened boxes.

"Thanks," Jaimie replies, tears open a small packet of soy sauce into a small bowl. Selina steals one of her spring rolls. "Do you want any soy sauce?" Jaimie asks.

"No, thank you," Selina makes a face. "That stuff tastes disgusting."

"Hey!" Jaimie protests, dipping a spring roll into it. "I'll have you know, that's the proper way to eat spring rolls."

"Whatever," Selina dismisses her protests, and continues eating the spring rolls dry. _Heathen._ The doorbell rings, and Selina goes to get it.

There's a moment of silence, and then Selina calls, "Hey, Jaimie? You might want to come see who's at the door." Jaimie sets the spring roll down, curious, and ambles to the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Title: Veni, vidi, vici_**

 ** _Author: OnyxSphynx_**

 ** _Beta: Radpineapple_**

 ** _Rating: T_**

 ** _Warnings: Canon-typical violence, language. Content may not be suitable for younger audiences._**

* * *

"Hi," Osvalda smiles nervously, aware of the girl glaring daggers at her, fidgets with the cuff of her sleeve. "I'm Anne—"

Jaimie breathes deeply. "Osvalda, cut the shit, I'm too tired to deal with that right now. Just...just come in." She feels surprised flit across her face—she wasn't expecting the detective to react this way. Anger, even rage, yes, but not...whatever this is.

At a loss for what else to do, she follows the detective into the small apartment. Jaimie makes her way to the kitchen cupboards. "Selina, go to your room. Osvalda, do you want a drink?" she asks, voice tired.

"No, thank you," Osvalda declines, slightly unnerved by the way Jaimie is acting. The other shrugs, pulls out a bottle of whiskey and a cup, pours herself at least half a cup. The blonde takes a seat in a chair and gestures for Osvalda to do the same. The girl who opened the door grabs a cat and glares at Osvalda harder before opening a door and slams it behind her.

There's an awkward silence as Jaimie stares at her cup, swirls it slightly, and sets it down again. "Say something, please," Osvalda begs, unable to stand the silence.

"What do you want me to say?" Jaimie asks, drained, gestures to them both with a wide sweep of her arm. "Do you want me to apologise for pushing you into the bay? Do you want me to rage at you for coming back, putting us both in danger? Because I can do either." She takes a gulp of her drink, closes her eyes as it burns a path on the way down.

"I'm sorry," Osvalda blurts out. "It just—seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Let you know I was alive, that is."

Jaimie huffs, takes another gulp of her whiskey. "ç'est ce que ç'est," she says dryly. "I appreciate the sentiment, though." They sit quietly for a moment longer.

"I can be your underworld informer," Osvalda offers. "Fish Mooney, your partner Harvey Bullock—they've all lied to you. I would never lie to you," she says, fiercely, reaches over and grabs Jaimie's hand, presses it to her heart. "Never. But there is a war coming, Detective, a bloody war, and I believe _you_ are the only person who can stop the bloodshed—the last good person in Gotham."

Jaimie laughs. "I'm no hero," she says. "I've both seen and committed atrocities in the name of winning a war. How am I any better than anyone else?"

"Because," Osvalda replies, "No matter what happens, Jaimie Gordon, you always try and help. You are the most merciful, courageous, kind person I have met. It would be my honour to assist you." She looks at her watch, smiles at Jaimie. "It's getting late, Detective, and we both have work tomorrow, so I shall take my leave. Good night."

She closes the door softly behind her, leaving Jaimie alone in the room, an empty glass on the table and the detective's hand tingling with the unexpected cold from being removed abruptly from its contact with Osvalda's suit.

* * *

The sound of shoes hitting the wet pavement makes Ron Jenkins, City Councilman, turn to see who's come to speak with him. By his side, his temporary advisor—Maryl or Myrtle Jones or something like that—who's filling in for his usual adviser, Dylan, who's out with strep-throat, shuffles her papers.

"Councilman!" the man greets, enthusiastically. "I'm one of your greatest supporters! Could I trouble you for a moment?"

Ron pretends to think on it for a minute before agreeing. After all, all publicity is good publicity as they say. The man produces a telescope-like device from his coat pocket and holds it out to the woman. "Could I trouble you to hold this for me? It's a bit heavy."

"Of course," she replies, and blushes when he thanks her profusely.

"Now, Councilman-" he starts, only to be cut off by a shriek of pain from Myrtle, and the man turns. Myrtle's lying on the ground, the telescope, a metal spike protruding from it, impaled through her eye. He bends down, tuts. "You really should know better than to play with others' things," he admonishes, twists the tube to hide the spike and steps towards the Councilman. Ron tries to flee, terrified, but in his haste, he trips. The mysterious man steps towards him and, bringing the tube to his chest, twists it so that it stabs Ron in the chest, killing him.

* * *

"-Politically motivated," Jaimie says, tiredly. She gazes at the lines of writing in the case file, then starts as she realised she's already read the same sentence at least half a dozen times.

Bullock shakes his head. "Nah, politicians are much cheaper to bribe than kill," he disagrees. _I didn't mean_ legal _politics_ , she thinks, but it's a lost cause. Bullock will continue to believe what he does until he sees evidence otherwise.

Suddenly, there's a cup of coffee her desk, and she looks up to see who's brought it. It's Ed, her red-brown hair neatly pinned up, another cup—this one with tea—in her other hand.

"I figured you might want a little pick-me-up," she says, grinning. "Borgia with extra caramel."

Jaimie opens the lid, waits for the steam to dissipate lightly and takes a drink, savouring the flavour. "Thanks, Ed," she says, gratefully. "I really needed that."

"No problem! I figured that since I was stopping by to get myself a cup of tea I might as well get you something," the other says cheerily, then checks her watch. "Well, I'd better get going—good luck on your case, Detectives!"

Jaimie waves to her, then turns back to her paper, ignoring Bullock, who takes a swig of something probably alcoholic, and sighs in relief when she finds that she can finally concentrate.

* * *

"O," the tall figure greats the other, both hidden in the shadows, "I trust you've procured what I asked?"

The other, shorter, huffs indignantly. "Of course I did. You're certain this is the best way I can assist her?"

The taller nods gravely. "I'm afraid that, as you know, she would question how either of us procured this—anonymous would be better."

They take a box from the shorter's arms, and before leaving, are stopped by a hand on their shoulder. "Here," the other says, gently placing a ceramic mug with an Emperor Penguin painted on it filled with chocolates. "Caramel sea-salt is her favourite," they say softly, and they stand together for a minute before departing.

* * *

They've just finished questioning the suspects for the Jenkins'—oddly enough, the temporary fill-in for the Councilor shared the same last name as him, though they were unrelated—murder, and she's extremely glad for the caffeine she ingested earlier, as, without it, Jaimie doubts that she'd've been able to concentrate.

Bullock, stubborn as he is, insisted for a good half hour that one of their first suspects, Nicky Keatt, a parking-lot mugger, so she now has a headache from trying to make sure that the hotheaded detective didn't harm the man. As she slumps in her chair, trying to ignore the buzzing in her head, it takes her a moment to notice the box on her desk. There's a note—written with a typewriter so no way of tracing it—and a ceramic cup full of chocolates.

Jaimie unwraps one and experimentally takes a bite out of one— _Oh. Caramel sea-salt_. They're high-end chocolates—she remembers buying a box of these for a date with her first girlfriends—and they melt in her mouth. Bullock sees her reaching for another and quirks an eyebrow. "Got an admirer, eh, Gordon?" he sneers when he catches sight of the note. Jaimie ignores him and pushes aside the note— _Hello Detective, we think this may aid you in your efforts, regards, your humble servants—_ and there, right on her desk, sits ten years of documentation on both Jenkinses—communication, relationships, people who they've crossed—as well as a file of information on the damage done by murder weapon, and similar incidences.

She leafs through the papers, wondering who on earth could've gotten all of this, and stops dead. Because there, right amongst the papers, sitting nestled innocuously, lies the biggest lead: a brochure advertising the Wayne family's plan for the Arkham project.

She pulls it out eagerly, barely even noticing when Bullock glances over her shoulder and opens it. There's a short summary of what Martha and Thomas' idea: demolish the slums and build affordable low-income housing. And since they're dead, the Arkham project has turned into the battleground between Falcone and Maroni, each of them submitting competing plans for the development to the City Council.

* * *

The back door opens, bell tinkling slightly, and two men enter, each carrying a large bag. Osvalda watches in apprehension as they place them on the table behind the screen, and a few seconds later, Maroni himself arrives, polished black shoes making a unique _taaaap-tap-squick-tap_ noise.

Apparently, though, she's been idling too long; Antonio is by her side within seconds, reprimanding her. "You know better than to look where you shouldn't," he says a tad nervously—after all, if she overhears something she's not meant to, it'll be his head that rolls.

"Of course, sir," she lowers her eyes, which seems to satisfy him. As he leaves, she listens to the soft hissing of the water from the tap. _Soon_ , it whispers, _soon._

* * *

He lugs the oil drum out of the back of his car, sets it to the ground with a _clang_ and pries the lid open. There's a man—another Councilor, Zeller, he remembers—inside, snivelling and breathing raspy breaths, bound tightly. He supposes he could've been kinder with the binding; it might cut off circulation.

It doesn't matter much, though, he reflects, lugging a large plastic gasoline can. Behind him, Zeller is frantically begging and pleading.

"P—please! I—I swear I'll change my vote, _please_ ," the man sobs. "Please!"

He ignores the racket, approaches the oil drum and pours about half of the gasoline on top of Zeller, dousing the man—which makes his pleas more and more desperate—and pours a trail away from the drum, about seven feet.

"I apologize for not making this swift," he says mockingly. "But my employer wants to send a message—and the best way to do that is to make an example of someone." He strikes a match and drops it, watching in fascination as the flame jumps up and reaches the drum within seconds, devouring the screaming Councilor.

* * *

The scene is, frankly, disturbing. The oil drum is fairly intact—though the same cannot be said for Councilor Zeller. All that's left of the man are his charred remains—scorched flesh, and, in some places, whitened bones. It sends a grim message, to say the least.

Ed, who's arrived before Jaimie and Bullock—she claims that it's necessary, as in a city like Gotham, it's better to make sure no one taints the evidence. Honestly, Jaimie doesn't blame her—appears by her side without warning.

"Jesus f-!" Bullock exclaims, nearly toppling to the ground. "What are you, a ghost?" he asks, then shakes his head, holing up a hand to stop Ed. "Whatever, don't answer—I really don't care."

Ed ignores him and says, excitedly, "Both Zeller and the Jenkinses suffered nearly identical puncture wound, which would indicate that it's the same assassin." She beams, fingers tapping against her leg with nervous energy.

"Huh," Jaimie furrows her brows, puzzled. "That's odd—why would the same person kill two men for opposing sides in a crime war?" She doesn't mention her theory—well, it's more than that. A visit to Bruce after her shift confirmed that.

Bullock, who's lit a cigarette—a sadly not irregular occurrence—mutters something about _only in Gotham_ but Ed shrugs. "I have no clue—I just analyse and collect evidence. It's your job to figure it out."

"Aww, your trust in my abilities is greatly appreciated," Jaimie coos, pressing a hand to her heart. "Oh, be still, my beating heart!"

"Nygma!" someone calls, and Ed rolls her eyes and mouths a goodbye, hurrying off to see what it is.

Bullock takes a final drag of his cigarette and tosses it into a nearby garbage can. "There is someone who might be able to give us a lead," he announces.

Jaimie turns to face him, and he lets out a sigh.

"You aren't going to like it, though," he warns, "It's another hitman—Sebastian Moran—and he's serving a life sentence in Blackgate."

* * *

It takes a while—Jaimie is reluctant, and then after that, they have to go through the whole paperwork process. Bullock insists on bringing a carton of cigarettes, claims they'll be necessary. It's hellishly hard to get to the guards to let's them take it in with them.

Sebastian Moran isn't anything like one would expect a hitman serving a life sentence to be like. He practically lounges in his chair, oozing smugness. "Did you know that I'm only alive because of a Mean Girls reference?" he asks casually. " 'Get in loser, we're going killing'," he grins, "ah, dearest Jim, you were taken from me too soon."

"Concentrate, Moran," Bullock snaps, and the man clicks his tongue.

"Rude, rude," he admonishes, "but fine—I'm feeling generous. What does the GCPD want with little old _me_?"

"Information," Jaimie cuts in, seeing Bullock's murderous look.

Moran's gaze snaps to her, interested. "Oh? And what've you brought in return?"

Bullock opens his coat, pulls out the cigarettes, lets Moran get a good view of them. Moran's gaze sharpens. "Malboro—I see you've done your homework, Detectives. Very well, ask away."

"There's been three deaths—all the same weapon," Jaimie says. "Forensics determined it's most likely a hollow tube with some sort of mechanism that triggers a metal spike or needle to pop out. Have you heard of anyone with this kind of weapon?"

Moran stares off into the distance as if summoning a memory from his mind. "Ah!" he exclaims. "Yes, I know the weapon, and it's owner—one Richard Gladwell, last rumoured to be working out of the Lansky Building. Now, your payment?" He holds out a hand. Bullock grudgingly gives him the carton.

When they search Gladwell's desk, there're sheaves of incriminating papers, along with a paper with the letters _C, L,_ and _M—_ but the man himself is nowhere to be found.

* * *

"Master Bruce? Master Bruce!" There's screaming, and Bruce realizes it's his own. There's sweat beaded on his brow, and he's shaking. Alfred is standing by hs bed, a worried expression on his face, his hand hovering of Bruce.

Bruce sits up, clears his throat. "I'm fine, Alfred—just nightmares. I'm sorry I woke you." He smiles unconvincingly—he's never been good at smiling. Alfred gives him a look, and Bruce sighs. "It doesn't matter, Alfred," he says tiredly. "Just—please get me the files regarding the Arkham project, I want to see if there are any connects between it and my parents' death." When Alfred opens his mouth, Bruce interrupts him. "I'm fine, really."

It rings hollow, and he's not sure who it is he's trying to convince.

* * *

Gunshots ring in the restaurant as three men fire wildly. Someone screams, another falls to the ground, blood pooling around them. The rest of the people scramble as far away as possible and huddle together against the wall, flinching when the gunmen move.

"Give us all your money!" one shouts at Antonio. Unfortunately for Antonio, he isn't fast enough to comply with their order. A second later, one of the gunmen stride over to him and shoots him in the head, eliciting more quickly muffled screams from the people huddled in the corner. He yanks open the safe door and pull out a dozen or so bags and gestures to another gunman to help him carry them.

Each grabs six bags and exit the restaurant, shove them into the back of an unmarked van, quickly followed by the third gunman, and then drive off. The passersby barely bat an eyelash.

A few minutes later, Maroni's right-hand man, Frankie Carbone, and about nine others burst in. He takes in the sight of the dead bodies, the terrified people huddled in the back, the overturned tables.

"What happened?!" Carbone demands, rounding on an older couple.

They whimper, but someone else answers. "They-they t-took it, sir, th-they took all of the money."

Carbone's lip twitches into a snarl and he turns to his men. "Search everywhere," he orders, and they all fan out to different areas of the restaurant. Carbone takes one with him, and they search the kitchen.

"Hey boss, ya might wanna see this!" the other calls. Carbone goes over to join him by the refrigerator. Curled within the refrigerator, obviously terrified, is a woman in a dishwasher's uniform, clutching a bag full of bills.

"I'm-I'm sorry, sir, they—I-I only managed to save one-one bag," she whispers eyes wide. "I-I'm so-sorry, sir. P-please don't kill me!" she pleads.

He observes her, takes in her non-threatening posture and wide eyes. "Take her with us," he orders the other.

* * *

Maroni slams his hand on the table. "It was Falcone, I'm sure of it," he growls. "I will get revenge for this." By his side, Carbone and another thug who stand on each side of his chair shift. Maroni considers his options. "Send her in," he snaps, and Carbone exits the room.

A second later, he returns, clutching Rosalind's arm. "Rosalind!" Maroni greets. "I must thank you—your actions are commendable." He smiles tightly. "Though we took considerable loses, you did manage to save a portion of our profit."

"Oh—well I—just—I'm sorry I only managed to get that much, sir," she stutters, flinching slightly when Maroni's smile widens.

"Quite alright," Maroni reassures. "In fact, I've given it some thought—and I've decided to promote you to owner and manager of Bamonte's. There's been a recent vacancy."

* * *

"Dead end." The papers make a small thump when they hit Jaimie's desk, making her look up. It's Bullock, hair pulled back with a hairband, scowl affixed to his face. He takes a gulp from his flask, grimaces slightly.

"What?" Jaimie asks. "You can't possibly mean-?"

Bullock nods. "The killer—whoever he actually is—stole the ID of Richard Gladwell. The real Gladwell disappeared five years ago, but the landlord who owned his apartment kept getting the monthly rent so he did'n' ask any questions."

"Lovely," Jaimie mutters sarcastically. "Just what we needed—one of our only possible leads is useless and we have no way of ID-ing the _actual_ murderer or their next victim." She sighs, squeezes her eyes shut.

Bullock snorts. "I'll see if any of my underworld contacts know anything." No doubt, he means Fish Mooney.

Jaimie feels an insane, hysterical laugh bubble up in her as she watches Bullock saunter off. _With what I have to deal with, one of these days,_ she thinks, _I'm going to join the criminal classes._

 _Selina would be overjoyed,_ her inner voice comments wryly. _And I bet we could get Ed to join us._

Speak of the devil and the devil shall appear. There's Ed, a stack of papers in her arms, two cups and a small bag balanced carefully on top. "Here you go!" Ed whispers excitedly, pushes the papers Bullock left to the side, sets a cup and the bag on her desk. "They had a special deal on their pastries, so I got a Bear Claw—but, well, it's kind of large, so I thought maybe you'd like to split it with me?"

She smiles softly, and that warm feeling bubbles up in Jaimie again. "Thank you—I'd love to," she says, softly, and Ed's eyes light up.

Jaimie tries to convince herself that her increased heart rate is just from the caffeine.

* * *

Fish lounges in her chair, watches the girl on stage—Liza. She's much better than the other girl; though her voice isn't as appealing, she's much better in...other areas. Quite a seductress, this one.

She takes a sip from her glass, leans over to Butch. "Put her on the preliminary list," she orders once the girl is done singing. The girl gives a nervous glance in her direction and scurries off the stage.

The door opens, and Fish looks up to see who it is; the club doesn't get many customers at this time. Most of the club's patrons are...otherwise occupied during the day, which is one of the reasons Fish hosts auditions during the day, unlike some other clubs in Gotham.

It's Harvey Bullock, ridiculous fedora sitting on his head, hands jammed into his pockets. Fish raises an eyebrow; It wasn't like she didn't expect him to return, but she wasn't expecting it to be so soon. Bullock may be thick, be he's a detective—he _can_ , contrary to common belief, pick up on social cues, he just generally doesn't choose to, so it's not as if Harvey is unaware of the tension and mistrust simmering between them.

"Detective," she greets cordially, if guardedly. "What can I do for you this fine day?"

Bullock shifts slightly. "It's 'bout a case; only lead I have is tha' it might be tied to the Arkham project and Falcone and Maroni's rivalry. Figured you'd probably have heard somethin' 'bout it." He's not as confident as he seems; Fish can read it in the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way he takes an offensive stance, puffs out metaphorical feathers to look larger.

It's pathetic.

Fish takes another sip from her glass, mulls over his words. Come to think of it, Bullock isn't on anyone's payroll, so he might be useful if— _when_ she moves to overthrow Falcone. Perhaps it would be in her best interests to help him on a few cases; play on the infatuation and put him in her debt. "Falcone's determined to gain control of the project—if he were to lose, it would embolden his enemies," Fish says in a measured tone, watching his face for microexpressions. "They already believe he's gotten old and weak."

Apparently, though, the slight glee at the prospect leaked through her mask of apathy, because Bullock comments, "You seem positively ecstatic at the prospect; need I ask why?"

"Don't worry about me," she reassures, "I always have a plan B."

* * *

Jaimie's phone rings, drawing her away from the frankly amusing spectacle that's occurring. Alvarez is getting chewed out by Ed for contaminating the evidence at the crime scene, her generally calm, timid countenance fully transformed as she yells at the detective.

Normally, Jaimie would feel a sliver of pity, but the man had it coming to him; Ed warned him—and his partner—multiple times that they needed to _be careful_ , but Alvarez had ignored her, choosing to traipse through the crime scene, contaminating the glass cups by _drinking out of them_ , which has the forensics scientist livid as those were the only things on the crime scene Ed could've lifted a fingerprint from.

With one last scowl and a poke at Alvarez's chest, Ed turns on her heel and storms away.

Jaimie pulls herself away from the spectacle, picks up her phone and taps "accept".

"Jaimie Gordon."

"Jaimie, my friend!" Osvalda's voice startles her, an unexpected amount of warmth readily apparent. "I do apologise for the inopportune time, but it is rather urgent—Maroni plans to hit another politician-"

"All of the Councilors are under GCPD protection," Jaimie argues, keeping her voice down.

Osvalda's reply is matter of fact. "There are ways around that." She's not wrong.

Suddenly, there's a commotion in the background, and Osvalda hisses, "Shit, someone's coming and I don't have an alibi—just go with it, okay?" She pitches her voice higher, speaks more slowly, "six 'o clock? Yes, I'll be there, darling, yes, love you, bye," before the line clicks, leaving Jaimie holding her phone, shocked into silence.

 _I should probably check over the list of officers assigned to the Councilors,_ she thinks, riffles through the stack of papers on her desk, frowning when the desired paper isn't amongst them. _I'll have to ask Kristen,_ she thinks. That's no mean feat though—three-quarters of the time, no one knows where the red-head is; she manages to disappear among the archives. Although, Ed might know—she has an uncanny ability to find things, and people. At the thought of the forensic scientist, the taste of caramel rises, unbidden, in her mind.

Luckily, Ed is in the lab, which is the first place Jaimie checks. Jaimie raps twice on the door, causing the other to look up from where's she's peering intently at a glass cup, a box of various powders and lights and other things open next to her, white, plastic gloves covering her slender fingers.

"Jaimie! How can I help you?" Ed asks. "I'm a bit busy with trying to pull any sort of print off of the cup that Alvarez—well," she stops herself. "No need to go in detail, I'm sure the whole precinct knows, but I'm sure I can spare a moment to help you."

Jaimie smiles, slightly sheepishly. "Actually, I was wondering if you know where Kristen is? I need the list of officers assigned to protect the various council-members, and-"

"Say no more, my friend," Ed replies, though it seems to be wearier. "I believe she's in section 2b of the archives, considering her usual routine." She offers a small, crooked smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Thanks," Jaimie says, turning to go. "Hey, Ed?" she adds, "do you want to come over to my place tonight? We can play board games, and anyway, Selina has grown attached to you," she offers, and Ed's smile softens, reaches her eyes.

"I'd love to," she returns.

* * *

 _You'll kill her in the end,_ Mirror Ed whispers, and Ed twitches, barely restrains herself from hurling something at the mirror. At one point, she'd taken it down, but she's quickly learned that a confined-to-the-mirror Mirror Ed is a far cry better than a hallucination Mirror Ed, what with the latter seeming far more real—frighteningly so.

"Shut up," Ed mutters, tries to concentrate, but it's a lost effort.

Mirror Ed chuckles. _I'm just trying to protect her from you,_ she simpers, and Ed hates it when she does this—rationally, she knows it's an emotional manipulation tactic, but that doesn't mean it stings any less.

"Shut up!" Ed hisses, abandoning her work. "Shut up shut up shutupshutup _shutup!_ " She turns to the mirror, ready to berate the woman in it who looks like her, but isn't, is _darker_ , _colder_ , less _human_. However, the sight that greets her makes her blink, and her reflection, too, blinks. It's unnerving, and it makes her recoil.

The figure in the mirror mirrors her. "Stop doing that!" Ed snaps, and Mirror Ed finally, _finally_ moves, eyes wide and innocent.

"What?" she questions, cocks her head to the side.

" _That,_ " Ed says, irritated, gesturing broadly. "Copying me!"

Mirror Ed laughs softly, shakes her head, lose, the slightly curly hair bouncing. That's one of the few things that helps Ed to disentangle herself from the other—she keeps her hair straightened and pinned up, while Mirror Ed's dark auburn hair, the same shade as her own, stay in curly tresses.

"Dude...it's a mirror," Mirror Ed tuts. "That's how they _work_."

As much as she hates to admit it, it's irrational, and Mirror Ed is right. Thankfully, Mirror Ed falls silent, leaving Ed to return to her work.

The memory of Jaimie smiling at her, inviting her over for a night of board games refuses to leave her.

Though she's had few, if any friends, and is generally socially awkward to the extreme, and social cues are a near mystery to her, she can't help but wonder if this is a bit more than a wish to befriend the Detective.

* * *

The instant Jaimie has the list in her hands, she scans over it, throwing a quick "Thank you!" to Kristen. The archivist gives a huff and shakes her head, and consoles herself with the fact that the detective actually _thanked_ her, unlike most others who require her services.

Jaimie feels the dread creep up as she scans the list of officers, and her stomach drops when she sees the names of those assigned to the Mayor.

Officers Campos, Lazenby, and Martins.

 _C, L, M._

The three letters from the piece of paper she discovered in the killer's desk.

They weren't a code—they were the initials of the officers who the killer's bought off.

Mind stuck somewhere between blind panic and hyper-focus which's been drilled into her over the years, Jaimie quickly notifies the Captain, and, when Essen pales and orders her to hurry, rushes to the Mayor's home. When she gets there, she does a quick perimeter check. The officers are nowhere to be seen, reaffirming her suspicions that they've been bought off.

Jaimie knocks on the over-embellished door, waiting with baited breath, counting the seconds in her head it takes for James to answer the door. After one-hundred-and-eleven nerve-wracking seconds, the door opens, revealing the mayor.

"Officer Gordon?" he asks, confused.

Jaimie glances around, looking for any possible spies. "Mr. Mayor, sir, someone's coming to kill you—we have to get you out of here, ASAP." The blood drains from the mayor's face, and he ushers her inside, nervously locking the door and bolting it.

Voice slightly higher than normal, sweat beading on his balding head, James says, "I have a country house where we'll be safe—but I can't leave without emptying my safe, it contains my emergency funds and important documents."

Jaimie wants to yell and pull at her hair—the idiotic man has _a target on him and he's more worried about his money than his life—_ but instead, she takes a calming breath and follows the Mayor, hand hovering over her holster, glancing behind her at intervals.

* * *

Outside the lavish house, the man pulls out two metal tubes, clicking them together. He takes a moment to observe the door before applying pressure to the rusting hinges, smiling slightly when he hears two crack off. With one last sharp shove, the doors fall into the hall.

Within, the officer—he thought he'd paid them all off, but this one won't make a difference—is knocked back. She drops her gun, pushing the target in front of her and down the hall, locking the door with a click.

He picks up the SIG-Sauer, advances on the door. Raising it, he shoots the lock off, careful to avoid shrapnel, and lunges at the officer. She hisses in pain when he manages to clip her shoulder, but gives as good as she gets, letting her fingers fade into talons and slashes across his cheek.

Her eyes widen in surprise as she barely avoids the wickedly sharp spike, and it sinks into the wood paneling on the wall instead of her neck. Unfortunately, he's focused on trying to kill the pesky officer, and he doesn't register her back-up arriving until another officer yells, "Duck, Gordon!" and he has to avoid the spray of bullets. However, in doing so, he has to release her, and he also drops the gun.

In those few moments, the female manages to get ahold of the weapon, and really, she's very pesky, isn't she? He sighs, shakes his head lightly. "Really, while your actions are commendable, officer, my clients hired me because I am a professional, and I _always finish the job_."

He shifts slightly as he speaks, readies his weapon, and lunges at the Mayor, who's huddling in the corner, terror spelt across his face for all to see.

In the space of a second, a single gunshot rings, and he falls to the floor, blood welling out of the wound at the base of his neck, mild surprise the last expression on his face.

* * *

Fish watches in amusement as the two teenagers glance between themselves and to her, then back again. Her words— _I'm afraid that only one of you will survive to continue on in my employment—_ ring in the air.

Liza catches on more quickly, and Fish can see the way the ideas run through her mind, the gravity of her sentence. It takes the second girl, Marie, only a half-second longer, but it's too long.

Liza lunges at the other girl, fingers finding her neck, and Marie tries to struggle, fingers trying to pry the other girl's fingers.

Her eyes are wild, and she makes a slight gurgle, Liza's fingers digging into her trachea, until, finally, her eyes roll back into her skull and her hand fall limply to her sides. A minute, then two, and Liza steps back, allowing the other's corpse to fall to the ground.

She looks up to Fish, fingers slightly bloodstained from where the nails dug into Marie's neck, expectant. Fish smiles.

"Welcome to your new position, Liza."

* * *

The leader, who's checking over his gun, looks up, sees the bag in her hand. "What's in there?" he asks suspiciously, eyes flickering over her to assess how much of a threat she is.

Osvalda smiles placatingly, opens the bag and pulls out a plate. "Cannolo—a bit of a congratulatory gift, if you will. I made them myself." She sets the plate on the floor between the three men. "Go ahead—you've completed your assignment admirably."

It takes a moment, but the men dive in, devouring the cannolo. One of them pauses, turns to her, cannoli in hand. "D'ya want some?"

"No, thank you for the offer—I ate before arriving here."

He shrugs and returns to the plate. Osvalda smiles.

* * *

The next day the Mayor, as a means of preventing a gang war, announces to the media that he has merged the two project proposals, with Falcone building the low-income housing, while Maroni gets to build a toxic waste disposal site.

"As for Arkham Asylum," he says, voice slightly crackly over the TV, "We will refurbish the existing building and bring it up to modern standards—it would be too costly to demolish it and build a new mental health facility."

Bruce scowls at the screen. "He deliberately excluded the centrepiece of my parents' plans for Arkham—the building of a new asylum!" he says, outrage seeping into his tone. "Everything they worked to leave—their _legacy—_ is controlled by criminals."

"Master Bruce, that simply isn't true!" Alfred protests.

Officer Gordon nods. "Alfred's right—you are your parents' most important legacy, and you're free of corruption."

They sit in silence for a moment, save for the background noise of the television. "Can Gotham ever be saved?" Bruce asks quietly, ignoring the look Alfred shoots him.

Officer Gordon sighs. "It's worth trying regardless," she says with conviction. Bruce can't help but hear the implication that she doesn't know whether or not it's possible.

* * *

Osvalda dusts her hands off, stands up and steps over the slumped body. "Really, for supposed professionals, you'd think they'd at least have the intelligence to be suspicious of the food," she says to the empty apartment, gathers up the bags of money. "Oh well," she shrugs. "All the better for me."

When she gets back to her place, she hides the bags in a concealed safe—she'll move it soon, but it'll have to do for now. Her phone rings, and she answers it.

Frankie Carbone's voice crackles over the phone. "So, when're you gonna bring your lover over? Or was that just someone you created as an excuse to leak info to someone?"

Osvalda stands, frozen. Shit. If she doesn't bring someone over to the restaurant, Maroni'll get suspicious—and that might lead to...less than favourable circumstances.

She tries to keep her voice steady, conceal the panic she's feeling internally. "N-no, we have a date on Saturday at six."

Carbone accepts her lie, and hangs up, leaving Osvalda to try and figure out what to do. If she doesn't, there's a high probability of death...which means she'll have to figure out a way to get Jaimie to agree.

She steels herself to negotiate, wheedle, use whatever tactics necessary, and unlocks her phone. The wallpaper, a silhouette of Gotham city, stares at her for a moment before she taps the phone icon, pulling up a list of contacts.

There are only a few numbers listed—her mother's, which she has only in case of an emergency, untitled, followed by a few decoy numbers labelled so as to appear as if they're for family members, and finally, Jaimie's.

Osvalda's finger hovers over it, and she wavers. Surely, the good Detective won't help her—the argument _I'm a cop and you're a mobster_ comes to mind, but this is a matter of life and death—if necessary, Osvalda isn't beyond a bit of bribery.

The phone rings six times, and Osvalda nervously fixes her eyes on the skyline, watches the sky and the light casting beautiful colours on the clouds; Gotham may be horribly polluted, but that, at least, makes for gorgeous sunsets.

"Hello?" Jaimie's voice snaps Osvalda back to earth. "Osvalda?"

Ah. So she recognized the number. Osvalda's flattered. "Detective, my friend!" she says, faux cheerily.

"Just Jaimie," the other corrects. "What's up?"

Osvalda takes a steadying breath. _It's this or death,_ she reminds herself. Here goes. "You remember when I called you to warn you? The alibi I used? Maroni's right-hand man, Frankie Carbone was the one who overheard that part of our conversation, and now he expects me to bring—well, _you_ , to the restaurant for a date."

There's a pause, and then: "What?"

Osvalda's heart sinks. "Oh-oh, nevermind-"

"Hang on," Jaimie interrupts, "I didn't say _no_ , I was just surprised."

"It's a matter of life and death, my friend," Osvalda adds, desperately. " _Please—_ if you don't, Maroni will have me executed!" Her panicked voices rings through the apartment, and she realizes she's been too loud. She lowers her voice. " _Please_ -"

Jaimie interrupts her again, this time voice softer. "Of course—how about you come over and we can hash it out? Maybe...tomorrow evening? If you're free then?"

Osvalda feels weak with relief. "Thank you, my friend—I don't know how to repay you-"

"Friends don't owe each other favours," Jaimie says firmly. "Goodnight, Osvalda—stay safe."

* * *

Jaimie's worry for her friend is pushed to the back of her mind, however, when she sees the time. Well, actually, it's Selina who plonks their Scrabble set in front of her, and announces, "It's six fifteen."

What ensues is, on her part, a frantic scramble to tidy up, while Selina laughs and informs her that, since she _actually pays attention and is prepared,_ she's made lasagna.

"What?" Selina asks, seeing the look Jaimie shoots her. "I _can_ follow a recipe—and surprisingly, you already had most of the ingredients. I just had to pop over to the grocery store and buy some tomatoes."

Jaimie's about to add something else when there's a knock on the door. Selina leaps up, racing to answer it. "Ed!" she exclaims, hugging the woman quickly before jumping back. "Jaimie found our Scrabble set and..."

Selina continues to babble as she goes to the kitchen, presumably pulling out the lasagne from where it's being kept warm in the oven.

Jaimie moves to take Ed's coat, sees the slump of her shoulders, the way her mouth tightens. "Something happen?" she asks, quietly.

Ed sighs. "Nothing more than usual—I managed to pull off a partial print, only for Alvarez to complain that he can't do anything with that, and Bullock was a jerk, as per usual."

"I'm sorry," Jaimie apologizes, "I wish I could do something about it."

Ed shrugs. "I honestly have no clue why the man hates me so much."

"Well, forget about that," Jaimie says, firmly. "Selina made lasagna and we can play Scrabble and watch a movie afterwards—that should help take your mind off of it."

(It does—the lasagna is delicious, and Selina ties with Ed, and they watch an episode of a crime show and laugh at the inconsistencies with real life before Ed introduces them to _Sherlock_.)

(Selina also manages to admit that perhaps school—which she started a week after Jaimie signed the adoption papers—isn't as awful as she thought, though she does voice annoyance at the boys' inability to understand when she isn't interested; so far, there are four boys trying to impress her, none of whom have the slightest clue that she much prefers girls.)


	5. Chapter 5

**_Title: Veni, vidi, vici_**

 ** _Author: OnyxSphynx_**

 ** _Beta: Radpineapple_**

 ** _Rating: T_**

 ** _Warnings: Canon-typical violence, language. Content may not be suitable for younger audiences._**

* * *

There's a light shining through the crack under Bruce's door. It's the fifth time in as many days that Alfred has gone around the house, completing the night dusting, to find Bruce up past midnight. He cracks the door open, sighs when he sees the boy slumped over his writing desk, fast asleep, papers and a file marked _Arkham Project_ strewn across the wood.

 _Oh, Master Bruce,_ he thinks, turns off the overhead light, then the lamp, gathers the boy up carefully in his arms and carries Bruce to his bed, pulls back the covers.

As he tucks the boy in, Bruce stirs, murmurs, quietly, "Mother...Father..." Alfred feels himself soften. Here is a young boy—his charge—who's recently lost his parents, and he's hurting, running himself ragged trying to solve their murder. He remembers a younger Bruce, a more carefree child, running through the gardens with his father chasing behind him, laughter floating through the air. Bruce's changed so much since then—he's changed so much since his parents' deaths.

Alfred wonders if Bruce will ever be happy, or if he'll get so consumed with his task to solve Martha and Thomas' deaths that he'll lose any chance of happiness. He resolves to make sure that never happens.

* * *

"Falcone thinks he can hit me, in my business—I'll show him." Maroni's voice is loud, and he seems quite unaware that _literally_ anyone could overhear him.

Which is what Osvalda's doing right now—covertly, obviously, it'd do her no good to be found out and killed. Thankfully, despite only having been the manager for a short amount of time, Maroni isn't suspicious of her. It probably has something to do with the Don's sexist beliefs, but Osvalda'll ignore them for now, as they're keeping her alive.

Maroni, idiot that he is, only had the surroundings checked once—there's a reason he's second to Falcone. Osvalda listens to Maroni as he lays out his plan of attack, and a plan of her own forms in her mind. She smiles.

Now, all there's left to do is work out The Plan with Jaimie. Honestly, she's still astounded at the detective's actions—she had thought that the other would've tried to distance herself, used the cop vs. mobster logic, but no, she actually seems to embrace, hell, _encourage_ Osvalda's clumsy overtures of friendship.

It's a nice change from the usual, but Osvalda pulls her mind away from that topic, concentrates on Maroni's plan.

* * *

It's a small booth in the corner of the café Ed introduced Jaimie to, _GC Jitters_ , an offshoot of the chain based in Central City; Jaime wonders how they've been able to survive this long in Gotham, relatively unscathed; as far as she knows, Central City has a fairly low crime rate, and mobsters are virtually nonexistent.

The booth's position, near the back of the café, affords both privacy and protection, and thus, is the perfect place for Osvalda and Jim to meet. When Jaimie gets there, she's slightly out of breath, and running late. The other is already waiting for her when she rushes in, slides into the seat across from Osvalda. The mobster is perusing the menu, and looks up, smiling broadly when she catches sight of Jaimie.

"Jaimie, my friend," she greets. "I'm glad you could make it."

Jaimie smiles sheepishly. "Yeah, sorry I'm late—something came up."

"Nonsense," the other dismisses, and when the waiter—Rose—comes to take their order, says, "Chai latte, and...?"

"Large hot cocoa," Jaimie fills in. "Extra whipped cream." The waiter scribbles on her note-pad and departs, leaving them alone. "Perhaps we should get to the matter at hand?"

Osvalda sighs, lightly, clasps her hands in her lap. "Straight to business, I see."

"Straight might not be the right word," Jaimie quips, which makes Osvalda break into a small smile. It's a very beautiful smile, makes her green eyes light up, softens her otherwise sharp outer appearance.

It fades far quicker than Jaimie would like it to, and Osvalda says, "Regardless, you are right—we have a limited amount of time, and I'd like this to be convincing, seeing as how I'd much like to stay alive. Maroni may not be bright, but he isn't completely clueless, loath as I am to admit.

"Obviously, we'll need to act, and act well—do couple-y things, go on a few dates, hold hands, anything else you can think of?"

Jaimie feels slightly in awe of this woman, her ability to turn nearly any situation to her advantage, but, "You missed something—well, a few somethings, actually," she points out. "The six-'o-clock date at Bamonte's, and typically, partners visit each other's place of residence quite often, so that would be necessary. And you've already been over to my place, so..." she trails off.

Osvalda snaps her fingers. "I knew I was missing something—though I can't say I look forward to interacting with Selina again." She shudders slightly. "I am quite certain she has murderous intentions towards me."

Jaimie laughs lightly. "Nah, she'll warm up to you—you'll see. Now," she reaches under the table, clasps one of Osvalda's hands in her own. "When did you say our date at Bamonte's is?"

Osvalda seems frozen for a moment, and Jaimie wonders if she's been forward. Then, she snaps out of it, returns Jaimie's smile. "The day after tomorrow—dress formally, though I'm sure that you'll look dashing regardless."

There's a small squeal from where they've forgotten about the waiter, who's returned. "Oh my _gods you're suchacutecouple_!" she exclaims, words slurring together in excitement. Osvalda blushes lightly, and Jaimie ducks her head. Rose leaves them with their drinks, a grin on her face as she departs.

Osvalda checks her watch. "I have to go—important business meeting to get to." She stands, and Jaimie stands with her. They split the bill, despite Osvalda's protests. When they get to the door, Jaimie leans over, presses a small, chaste kiss to the other's cheek.

"Bye, darling," she says, softly, and departs.

* * *

The man sits on the cold concrete, guitar case open, plucking miserably at the strings of the instrument. It's out of tune—he'll have to re-tune it, but he hasn't had the opportunity to do so yet. The pedestrians mostly ignore him, save for one man wearing a black trench-coat and a black hat that covers his face. He strides up and drops a small green bottle into the guitar case.

As he leaves, the guitarist catches sight of a single disfigured ear as the man disappears into the crowd. The guitarist reaches into the case, picks up the bottle. On one side, it has that medical symbol on it, the one that's a staff with two snakes wrapped around it—a caduceus. He turns it over.

The other side reads, in bold black lettering,

 **B**  
 **R**  
 **E**  
 **A**  
 **T**  
 **H**  
 **E**

 **M  
E**

He shrugs—why not. There's a slight pop as he uncorks the bottle, the glass stopper sticking slightly as he pulls it out. Cautiously, he raises it to his nose, eying the small plume of green that rises before recalling the voice of his science teacher yelling at a student for doing just the same, and pulls it away, wafting it slightly with his hand.

The bottle falls to the ground, shatters, the sickly green spreading out and running down the gutter.

A few blocks away, the same man enters a small convenience store, heads straight for the refrigerated goods aisle. He cracks open one of the refrigerators, pulls out a gallon bottle of milk and pulls off the cap, chugs the entire thing before doing the same to two more.

It's not until he's on the fifth bottle that the owner notices something's wrong. "Hey!" he shouts, advancing toward the musician. "You gotta stop—you need to pay-" He hits the wall, head cracking painfully against the plaster.

From the cafe across the road, Jaimie polishes off her sandwich, draining her cup of coffee. Suddenly, an alarm sounds, and Jaimie whips around, sees the broken glass window of the convenience store, the owner lying on the ground, and takes off.

"Hey partner, it's lunch! We're off-duty!" Bullock protests, waving his own sandwich in the air. However, Jaimie hears the sound of his steps behind her.

There's a man lying on the ground, injured. Jaimie moves to help him. "He went crazy—he went-he went crazy, ripped the ATM—the whole ATM machine outta the wall!" The man babbles, and Jaimie furrows her brow. _What_ is _he on about?_

Bullock comes to a stop, puffs out, "Right, sir, we're homicide, no one's dead, and it's lunch—call 911 and they'll send someone to take care of you."

Something about the man's words seem odd—well, odder than the rest of it. "What did the attacker's vehicle look like?" she asks.

The man laughs, slightly hysterical. "There—there _wasn't_ one. He pulled it outta the wall with his bare hands!"

"Did you just say he pulled it pulled it out of the wall without any help?" Bullock asks, and the man nods.

Jaimie and Bullock share a look—this is something far more unusual and dangerous than what they've seen before.

* * *

"Thank you for coming; I know many of you have busy schedules." Despite his age, Carmine Falcone's voice is strong from where he's seated at the head of the table. To his side, Fish Mooney.

"As you know, Maroni was awarded a share in the Arkham project. I've gathered you to assure you that our partial share in the Arkham development project is not a loss. If anything, we will profit from it even more now that a war has been averted."

There are mutters, people shift, until one of Falcone's subordinates, a Russian known only as Nikolai, pipes up, "Maroni will be emboldened by success—we should strike back first."

Fish glares at him. "And if he does, we will remind him why he is second," she snaps. "We are more than equipped to deal with him."

Nikolai sneers, "You are too bold; perhaps there is a reason for a woman's place, in the motherland." Fish looks ready to shoot him, opens her mouth to spit back a venomous response, only to be halted by Falcone.

"We are family, Nikolai; Fish deserves her place as much as you," Falcone reminds him. "We must provide a united front to our enemies." His unspoken threat hangs clearly in the silence.

* * *

"You're _certain_ that the man is the same one Charmagne recognised?" Jaimie asks. After checking the security cameras and CCTV, they managed to find a shot of the perp's face, which was then recognised by an associate of Bullock's, who claimed the man to be Benny, and directed them to his usual hangout.

" _Yes_ , I'm certain," Bullock snaps, hands tightening on the steering wheel so his knuckles go white. "They had a few one-night stands, and Charmagne's good with faces. Plus, it's our only lead."

Damn him for being right. Jaimie exhales, willing the tension to leave her muscles. Lately, she's been on edge—worry for Os, mostly, and at Gotham, for its tendency to kill tons of people in general—not even mob-related deaths, which, surprisingly, to newcomers, are actually fairly rare. No, it's just Gotham, in all of its messed up, macabre glory, such as the couple who invited a family whose children they were babysitting over, only for their parents, in a horrifying twist, to learn that the absence of their children wasn't that that they had gone to the park and would be back later, but rather because the kids were the main course.

Bullock stops the car, and they get out. It's the bridge, and it takes a bit for them to locate Benny, mostly because the man is slumped on the ground, curled into a foetal position, surrounded by so many milk containers—and the ATM—that they almost obscure him from view.

Jaimie rushes to the whimpering man's side, and Bullock follows behind her. Suddenly, Benny convulses. "He—help me, ple—please help me! It h—hurts, s—so much," he cries. "The man w—with the—with the m—messed up e—ear—he g-gave me...it f—felt s—so _good_ to s—start, b—but n—now it's doing s—something h—horrible."

"Alright," Jaimie says, tries to remain calm. "Stay calm—we can help you." She raises her hands to show there's nothing in them. Wrong move. The movement registers, and Benny springs up, and, with inhuman strength grabs the ATM and makes to hurl it at them, but just a second before he can, a sort of _shiver_ runs through him, and his face contorts, bends, collapses on itself, and he, to, collapses, the ATM falling on him.

"Oh god," Bullock mutters, turns away, and Jaimie can't blame him—what was once a man is now but dust underneath and around the ATM.

"What if it's not an isolated incident?" Jaimie wonders out loud. "What if Benny was just the start?" The mere thought makes her feel slightly sick, and Bullock too, if the green tinge to his face isn't just a figment of her imagination.

That night, as the rest of the city sleeps, _he_ walks amongst the streets, and there are more green-filled vials.

* * *

Bruce stares unseeingly at the board in front of him. On it, tacked up over each other, is every lead, every bit of evidence, anything that might lead him to his parents' murderer. So far, nothing. Only whispers, rumours, and, bizarrely, a nursery rhyme his father once sung to him.

 _Beware the Court of Owls,_  
 _That watches all the time,_  
 _Ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch,_  
 _Behind granite and lime.  
They watch you at your hearth,  
They watch you in your bed,  
Speak not a whispered word of them,  
Or they'll send The Talon for your head._

Bruce has no clue what it means, other than the fact that it's popped up numerous times during his search, and by this point, he highly doubts it's a mere coincidence, coupled with the fact that his father sung the piece to him the nights before his death, but for the life of him, Bruce can't think of any connection; this Court, if they are real, is an unknown variable, and either no one knows who they are, or they're too afraid to tell, which leads him to conclude that, somehow, this Court is involved in his parents' deaths.

The thought leaves a sick feeling in his stomach, and instead, he focuses on his parents' business. During the time since _then_ , Bruce's grown increasingly suspicious of the members of the board; there's more and more evidence that Wayne Enterprises isn't nearly as clean and honest as he'd once thought, and Bruce has an ever-growing hunch that _Gotham_ isn't what it seems.

Thus, he's decided to attend the upcoming charity event hosted by Wayne Enterprises; it'll both give him a chance to interact with the board members, and show the public that he is taking an interest in the goings on of his family business.

* * *

There's another set if shouting and yells, followed by the thump of fists hitting flesh. Someone yells, and Jaimie groans, presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, tries to relieve the pressure building up behind them. Beside her, ever-impervious to the noise and chaos, Bullock takes a swig from his flask. Captain Essen pinches the bridge of her nose.

The precinct, as if jinxed by Jaimie's utterance, is overrun by people of all sizes, genders, races, and social classes, all dosed up with what they've been referring to as "Viper", and, as with Benny, they all exhibit inhuman strength. So far, really, that's all that they can figure out, other than that the perp must have high-society connections, because a few of the victims are of Gotham's elite, and as far as anyone can tell, the perp's not targeting any one group—or groups—of people, so Ed theorizes that whoever it is is probably testing an initial version to refine the formula.

After that, Jaimie's friend had muttered something under her voice, taken a look at the test results from the victims, and dashed off to the lab, promising to return. Actually, speak of the devil.

"Jaimie, Detective Bullock, Captain" Ed greets. "I must say, the results are quite fascinating—the drug fuels the subject's strength by consuming their body's calcium at a hyperactive rate, giving them almost absurd strength, hence the subject's need to consume calcium, leading to incidents like the break-ins where the subjects consumed mass quantities of milk.

"However, the consumption is so rapid that, within twenty-four hours maximum, the subject's bones crumble and they suffocate to death. As I told Detective Gordon earlier, it's highly likely that this is simply the first batch, and whoever created it is simply testing it out to try and perfect it," Ed finishes.

Essen's brows furrow. "Why would anyone pay for a drug that kills one-hundred percent of its users?"

"As you saw, ma'am, there are many different groups affected, and I wouldn't be surprised if some of them were dosed unwillingly," Jaimie cuts in.

Bullock set his flask down and addressed the Captain. "Before it kills 'em, it makes 'em feel wonderful, an' it gives superstrength." He shrugs. "There's probably plenty 'a junkies who're desperate enough to take willingly."

Surprisingly insightful, for Bullock; perhaps he does have some merit as a detective. "How's it made?" Jaimie asks Ed. Perhaps there's something in the way it's manufactured that can help to trace it to the perp.

Ed lights up, eager to talk about this new mystery. "It's an incredibly sophisticated process, nothing you could do with anything less than state-of-the-art labs and equipment—and this isn't anything small; whoever created this has already refined it far enough for mass-production, and clearly, it's been mass-produced on some level."

"I'm guessing that not many people have access to that sort of stuff?" Jaimie asks, and Ed nods.

"Almost no one, actually, other than two main pharmaceutical companies; Wilde Pharmaceutical, headed by the enigmatic, and mysterious Mr. Xander Wilde, and WellZyn, a pharmaceutical subsidiary of Wayne Enterprises—which, if rumors are to be believed, the latter is far more likely, though I don't know if it's the company, or a former employee." The look on her face shows her irritation at not knowing. Jaimie can't blame her.

Ed starts to say something else, only to be interrupted as a scuffle breaks out amongst the officers. One of the victims is fighting against the officers, scratching and clawing, teeth bared, and with a slight pang of sadness, Jaimie realizes it's the woman who helped them track down Benny: Charmagne. She wonders how the woman got ahold of Viper during that time.

The fight doesn't last long; at first, Charmagne seems to have the upper hand, superstrength and whatnot, but, as with Benny, she starts writhing and shrieking in pain. Jaimie watches in morbid, horrified silence as the macabre scene plays out in front of her, Charmage's face collapsing in on itself, then she crumbles to the floor, clothes falling atop the shapeless pile of what once was a human.

Some of the officers nearby, along with some who were attempting to restrain Charmagne, turn green, and one or two hastily clamp their hands over their mouths, looking ill, and shakily make their way to the bathrooms.

Jaimie sighs. Between the case and her date with Osvalda later—even if it _is_ a fake date, which, for reasons she can't—doesn't want to—decipher, makes something twist uncomfortably within her—her day is absolutely packed. Thank gods she had the foresight to start chilli in the slow-cooker before she left for her shift in the morning, so there'll be something hot for Selina to eat when she gets home from school

* * *

Once her shift's over and she's gotten back to her apartment, Jaimie spends half of her remaining hour worrying over what to wear. No doubt, Osvalda will look stunning, dressed to the nines, and what sort of impression would it give if she turns up in casual clothes? No, that won't do.

Thankfully, she has a few formal things—mostly purchased for weddings for distant relatives, worn only once. She lays her three choices out on her bed—a short dark blue and black piece, a floor-length, lighter blue dress with silver piping, and a dark green dress that hits just below her knees. She worries her bottom lip, indecisive, and checks her 'nice shoe' collection. There's a pair of black flats, and a pair of slightly-heeled black boots that, frankly, look far more comfortable.

Decision made, Jaimie pulls them out of the back of her closet from where the box is hidden, and holds them up. In the light, they have a dark iridescent tint, and it clashes horribly with the light blue and the green dresses, which leaves the shorter black and blue piece. She puts the other two away, brushes her hair—it's gotten frizzy from the static in the precinct, and since it's a pixie cut, it looks ridiculous—and slides on the outfit, which sits nicely against her skin, checks the clock—twenty minutes—and takes a deep breath.

 _I've got this. It'll go fine—there aren't that many things you could do...besides accidentally ruin the whole charade (_ and there's that bitter, acrid feeling _) and wind up getting Osvalda killed._

Her heart jackrabbits, and she closes her eyes, tries to take deep, measured breaths, feels her throat close up, the air not reaching-

Jaimie's phone vibrates and lights up with a text message, breaks her out of her downward spiral; she fumbles with it, and navigates to the Messages app. There's a message from an unknown number:

 _Are you ready? We have ten minutes. Do you know the address?—O_

Osvalda. The tension leaves Jaimie's shoulders, and she quickly types, _Sorry, got into a bit of a situation; I'll be on my way asap_ , and slips on her boots, grabs her keys; there's a spare key in the hallway by the apartment door for Selina, so she locks the door and makes what turns out to be an alarmingly short trek to Bamonte's.

When she gets to the door, Osvalda's there to greet her, dressed, as Jaimie predicted, to the nines and looking _gorgeous_ , if she does say so. Osvalda smiles at her slightly, a quick tug at the edges of her lips, offers her arm. "Shall we?"

Jaimie nods, links their arms, and Osvalda leads her to their table; situated in the back, away from prying eyes, there's something almost cosy about the two-person table. "You look nice," Jaimie says quietly as they slip into their chairs. "It almost makes me feel underdressed."

Osvalda blushes lightly, the red sprinkled delicately on her pale face, highlighting the freckles on the bridge of her nose. She looks adorable.

"You needn't be worried," Osvalda says, once she regains her composure, "I might be slightly overdressed-" Whatever she's about to say is cut off when the waitress comes to the table with menus. They're dark red with gold embossment and writing, and they fit with the aesthetic of the restaurant well. They—well, Jaimie—peruse the menu for a few moments, before Osvalda speaks softly.

"If I may, I'd suggest the three cheese ravioli and a Caesar salad—Bamonte's has the best I've ever tasted," she offers. Jaimie feels her lips twitch slightly into a smile.

"Thanks, I was starting to feel out of my depth—I don't know what half of these dishes are," she admits, and Osvalda laughs, eyes sparkling.

"So glad I could be of help, honey," she teases.

Jaimie grins, sets her menu down so as to see the other better. "You're probably one of the only people who'd bother," she says, more truth to the statement than she's intended, but it's light instead of dark and saddening like it usually is. "It's just my unique charm."

Osvalda makes a sound that sounds suspiciously like a short huff of amusement, and mutters, " _Charm_. Yes, of course, definitely."

The waiter comes back around, and Jaimie orders Os' suggestions, as well as a dish of meat-filled cannoli, and Osvalda orders linguine alfredo and a bowl of minestrone soup, and a basket of garlic bread, and two plates of tiramisu and two Rainbows. After the waiter leaves, Jaimie tries to protest, cites the price, and insists, _really, just a simple dinner is enough, darling_ , but Osvalda cuts her off.

"Dearest Jaimie, I'll have you remember that this is our six-month anniversary, and I'm the manager—price is no issue," she says firmly, leaving no room for debate, and Jaimie gives in. The ravioli, cannoli, salad, and garlic bread are all heavenly, and they make small-talk while waiting for the tiramisu and cocktails. The detective learns that Osvalda likes the smell of lavenders, is fluent in German and Greek, that she enjoys classical literature, and that she can bake almost anything except brownies, and she likes cats but as a child the places she lived in never allowed pets.

They slowly eat the desert, and drink their cocktails—which, as its name suggests, is a rainbow concoction, red at the bottom and light, cerulean blue at the top, topped with a cherry and an orange slice, quite fitting, she thinks—before she bids Osvalda goodnight, leans down to peck her on the cheek.

Without warning, Osvalda stands on her tiptoes, tilts her head up and catches her lips in a short kiss, slightly awkward, and their teeth clack a bit, but it tends tendrils of electricity down Jaimie's spine, like a wish made of lightning and thunder, a wish that this, this charade was a reality; a flickering wish that Osvalda would ever want to actually be with her in real life. Yhough she knows, intrinsically, that the second the other woman catches sight of her plumage, it'll end in calls that go to voice-mail every time and a cold-shouldered avoidance, and it leaves an aching sensation just bellow her heart, and she thinks, _oh gods, I'm so fucked._

* * *

"-the casino's too well guarded," Frankie argues, loud enough that Osvalda can hear him from the position she's in, halfway across the restaurant. Being the manager does have some perks, and she's already deposited a fair amount of money into her mother's bank account via cheque.

"Robbing it will cost us too many men," Frankie adds, trying to reason with the Don, to no avail. Honestly, if the man had a bit more ambition, he'd make a better mob boss than Maroni. However, Osvalda can't complain, truly, considering she can twist this to her benefit.

Carefully, making sure to broadcast her presence, Osvalda approaches the Don's table, stands by it with an air of nervousness around her. The Don notices almost immediately.

"Excuse me, sir; I couldn't help but overhear your discussion about the casino-"

Frankie cuts her off almost immediately. "Mind your own business," he growls. Osvalda purses her lips lightly, but backs away.

"I'm sorry, of course. I'm sorry," she backtracks. Maroni squints at her slightly.

"No. Tell me what you know," he demands.

Osvalda blinks, startled at the sudden change of mood. "About the casino? I know a janitor who runs the boiler room..." she trails off. "He could get you in there easily. There are access tunnels no one knows about."

"Access tunnels?" Maroni questions, a glint in his eye. "Come here. Sit down," he orders.

"Thank you, sir," she says, smiles twitchily. "A great honour indeed."

"What's your name again?" Maroni asks.

Osvalda's smile drops off of her face. "Everyone here calls me Penguin, sir." It's not a lie, per se.

"You don't like that name, huh?" Maroni observes, and Osvalda can feel the twitch of her eye. Apparently, it's enough of an answer, and Maroni takes a glass, places it in front of her, says, "Yeah, well you're wrong. It's a good name. It works for you.

"So, how do you know this man?"

Osvalda takes a sip from her glass, savours the taste of the ruby-red liquid. "I have connections," she replies.

"Reliable, is he?"

"I'm sure I can convince him to be."

"Boss, this is a dishwasher in a suit," Frankie protests, agitated, taps his fingers rapidly against his leg, impatient.

"Relax," Maroni placates, turns back to Osvalda, "is that right, Penguin? Are you just a dishwasher? Because I don't get that vibe. You come off as all humble, but you got a little player in you, huh?"

It may be blatant flattery, but Maroni's highly unlikely to believe the truth—which means, of course, that she'll tell the truth, or part of it at least. "That's very perceptive of you, sir," she pauses for effect, "I guess that's why you're the Don." Maroni looks pleased, smiles. She continues, "I'm not a mere dishwasher, and this isn't my first rodeo, so to speak."

The spark of interest is back in Maroni's eye. "So you've ridden some bulls, huh? Well, well, do tell."

"Well, my real name is Osvalda Cobblepot."

"Mm-hm."

"I think that once you hear my story, you'll agree that I could be a great asset for you, sir," she says, watching the Don's reactions carefully, "it's a long, funny story, really, but the headline, just so you're not surprised—I used to work for Fish Mooney." Ah, recognition, a calculating gaze in the Don's eyes.

"Fish Mooney?" It's Frankie who asks, guarded, but curious.

"Yes, sir. I was privy to many aspects of the Falcone family business—until they tried to kill me." It's bitter, and in that moment, focused on her hatred of Fish, Osvalda doesn't take notice of the Don's movements, and suddenly, her head slams into the table, stinging and bruising already, and she stifles a gasp.

"Heh." The Don's chuckle is mean, and he grabs her by the hair and lifts her head back up, looks her in the eye and grins. " _Hel_ lo. Heh. Suffice it to say—heh." He laughs again. "That is a funny story."

* * *

"Detectives," a stern-faced woman greets, "I'm Taylor Reece, one of WellZyn's attorneys; I'm here to reassure you that WellZyn has no part in the manufacture of Viper, and legal action will be taken against those who claim as much—however, I am also here to aid you." She taps her fingers lightly against a file. "Any information you have may aid us."

Bullock looks like he's about to make a sarcastic comment, so Jaimie cuts in: "We don't have much, but we know some basic physical attributes of the perpetrator—medium build, heavy step, so probably an old injury or a prosthetic of some sort, and, most notably, a disfigured ear."

The attorney's eyes widen slightly, and she stops tapping. "Stan Potolsky," she says slightly shakily, "he's a former WellZyn employee—a biochemist—who became unhappy with his work after an accident that gave him a permanent limp, and he tried to cut off his ear in protest, before quitting." There's more to it than that, Jaimie can tell, but Reece is looking slightly ill, so she doubts now would be a good time to push for more answers. Reece glances around, and makes her excuses, before practically fleeing.

"Well," Bullock says after a moment, "I'll go and request a search warrant; try not to get involved in any BS," and disappears.

Jaimie lets out a small sigh, forces her muscles to un-tense, but a second later, the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, and she tenses back up again; a moment later, the reason becomes apparent: Frankie Carbone, Don Maroni's right-hand man. She's never had the misfortune to meet the man one on one, but he's hardly inconspicuous, showing up at various crime scenes. Usually, an exchange of bills with an officer or witness is bound to follow.

"Come with me," he says gruffly, grasps her forearm, and Jaimie yanks her arm away, glares.

"Nope, no way," she snaps, the instinctual urge to bare her teeth barely controlled, manifesting only as a twitch of her lips. "I'm not going with you anywhere."

Carbone chuckles darkly. "I think you will, if the name Osvalda Cobblepot means anything to you." Jaimie freezes.

The next few minutes pass in a blur; no one in the precinct tries to stop Carbone from dragging her off, ducking their heads and averting their eyes. She's escorted into a black car, stares blankly out the window until the car stops and the mobster pulls her out of the car, practically man-handling her through the back door of what Jaimie vaguely recognizes as Bamonte's; everything seems far off and unfamiliar and she feels clammy. The mobster escorts her into a room, and everything else seems to black out, her vision narrowing in on the slight, frail-looking person next to Maroni, lip split and a black eye blooming like a splotch of ink when water wets it, and suddenly, everything clicks, and there's an unholy fury rising in her, because-

It's _Osvalda_ , sitting battered and bloodied.

She wants to _kill_ Maroni, _flay_ him. Osvalda catches her eye, sees _something—_ a wildness, a feral hatred—and shakes her head minutely. _No_.

Maroni opens his mouth, says something, and Jaimie focuses, drags her gaze away from the pale woman. "...if your stories match, then Cobblepot here is telling the truth," Maroni grins, claps Os' shoulder, hard, and she winces slightly. "If not—then you both die."

 _Gods,_ Jaimie thinks, _what a mess_. She hasn't got the faintest clue what Os told the mob boss, so she decides the best bet is the truth. "I was investigating the Wayne murders—Falcone and unknown parties in the GCPD conspired to use me to frame Mario Pepper. To ensure my silence, once I discovered that Pepper was framed, Falcone ordered me to shoot Cobblepot." And gods, she wants to say _Os_ , but that would seem to intimate, and the last thing Osvalda needs is someone who could be used against her. "I didn't."

"Does anyone know that Cobblepot is alive?" Maroni asks, and Jaimie shakes her head.

"If they did, we'd both be dead."

Maroni looks ecstatic. "So not only are you telling the truth, Cobblepot, but your very existence gives me a brand-new weapon. Thank you for your candour, detective. And remember, if you breathe a word of this to anyone, you will regret it."

Carbone ushers her out, and, helpless to do anything else, Jaimie tries to send a reassuring look to Osvalda.

* * *

"Classic loner." Bullock sneers as Potolsky's possessions tumble onto her desk, and onto the floor. "No living family members, no friends, an' no one he's really close to, other than his assistant, Jervis Tetch." Jaimie roots through the mess, and spies a photograph—dated twelve years prior, and, in the same spidery script: _Jervis, Prof. Wilde, and I._ It's a photo of Potolsky, a slender, wild-haired, tanned man, and a short man with curly, almost frizzy hair, atop which rests an elegant top hat.

She flips the photo over, looking for any more writing, but it's blank. "We know which one's the professor?" Jaimie asks the other detective, who nods.

"Yeah—that one," he replies, pointing to the slender man. "The good professor Zachary Wilde is retired, now, but he gives the occasional seminar—lives in the Narrows, where he was born, an' the short dude is Jervis Tetch, Potolsky's assistant."

The professor's name rings familiar, and she hums, trying to remember where—oh! "The professor—does he have any relation to Xander Wilde?"

Bullock blinks, surprised. "Yeah, actually—Xander is Zachary's nephew. Why—you think that Potolsky's using Wilde's shit to make his bone-sucking drug?" The grim look on Jaimie's face is enough of an answer. "Alright," Bullock sighs. "We can't rule it out, at least yet, even though I find it hard to believe."

* * *

Zachary Wilde lives in a small apartment in the Narrows, in a building painted a greying pink, on the first floor; on his door is a brass knocker in the shape of an owl's head, and Jaimie lifts it tentatively and knocks. The clack of metal against metal, three times, echoes, and a small cloud of dust puffs up into a cloud, hitting Bullock in the face, making the other detective cough.

Thankfully, she's not forced to wait long—within a minute, the door opens, revealing the professor; he's a bit slimmer, now, and there's a touch of silver-grey at his temples.

"We're with the GCPD, Professor Wilde," Jaimie says, as Bullock's still recovering from his bout of coughing. "We'd like to ask you some questions."

"Of course, of course—please, come in."

Jaimie crosses the threshold, pulling Bullock behind her. "Thank you, Professor. First off, what do you know about Stan Potolsky?"

Wilde pulls out a chair for himself and sits down, looks off into the distance before speaking. "Stan was a student of mine, just over a decade ago—he was a biochemist by training, but he was always deeply interested in philosophy. He often came to me when he felt morally conflicted about his work-"

Bullock makes a confused noise. "Morally conflicted? Why? WellZyn's attorney told us he made shampoo an' other domestic products—what's morally conflicting about that?"

Wilde lets out a harsh bark of laughter. "They lied to you, the—Stan worked in WellZyn's biological warfare research division. Specifically, he worked on designing epigenetic drugs to make super-soldiers—hmm, what did they call it?" He tilts his head in thought. "Ah, yes—Viper."

"Erm—did it by any chance suck the calcium from the vic's bones?" Jaimie asks.

Wilde claps his hands, smiles. "So—you have heard of it? Yes, well, Viper was...it was simply a test strain—the first one, if I'm not mistaken. They succeeded in making a non-lethal version, called it Venom. Bit of a snake obsession, if you ask me," he says, and Bullock wrinkles his nose in distaste. "Stan pleaded with his bosses to stop and when they refused, he went straight to Thomas Wayne; Wayne apparently managed to get the project shut down, but it was restarted as soon as he died."

"You don't seem particularly upset to learn about the destruction," Jaimie notes, the gears in her head turning, and suddenly, everything connects—the little things that had seemed off, and it lights up in her mind. "You're working with him."

Wilde smiles, spreads his hands. "Ah—you got me, Detective—you really _are_ as good as they say, aren't you? Well, I'd stay, but I have stuff to do, places to go, and I don't particularly fancy a prison cell-" He reaches into the candy bowl by his side, lightning-quick, and plucks a small vial, filled with green, pops the cork and downs the concoction.

 _Shit shit shit,_ her mind screams as she ducks away from one of Wilde's fists, and it passes a mere inch above her head. However, Wilde doesn't seem very picky about targets; Bullock's down within seconds, Wilde's hands wrapping around his neck, his face turning blue, and, with no other route she can take to avoid a casualty—because she may hate the man, but she isn't one to let others spoil her revenge—she shoots Wilde in the back, right below his left shoulder.

The man lets go of Bullock, falls to the side, and blood bubbles out of the wound, but he isn't dead—yet. Jaimie moves to his side, asks, harshly, "Who's his next target?"

Wilde laughs, blood speckling his lips, and gurgles, "H-he's...he's striking back at-at Wa-Wayne Enterprises—and th—their empty alt-altruism willl not—willll not erasssse their crimessss..." His eyes roll back into his skull, and he goes limp.

* * *

The security is, frankly, horrible; it takes a simple waiter's outfit to sneak in, and the security wave him pass, not even asking about his duffel-bag. Well, what they don't know hurt them— _well_ , he cuts himself off, bitting back a maniacal cackle of laughter, _it won't hurt them, it'll just kill them._

From there, it takes him a mere six minutes to navigate to the hotel's roof.

Disguised as a waiter, Stan Potolosky sneaks into the hotel with a full tank of Viper, and then goes to the roof to connect it to the ventilation system. Then, there's only a press of a button between the life and death of everyone in the hotel; Stan's finger hovers over the button before he pulls it back, scolding himself; he can be patient.

In the meantime, he has half an hour to piggyback off of a signal and live-stream to every TV in Gotham. He smiles grimly, pulls a laptop out of its case in the duffel-bag, and starts it up, the logo blinking to life on the screen, and he waits.

WellZyn will come to an end one way or another.

* * *

"Master Bruce, this is Molly Mathis—she worked closely with your father." Alfred's statement brings Bruce back to reality—for the past hour, there's been an itch at the base of his neck, a subtle scream of _wrongwrongwrong_ in his mind; that something is terribly, terribly off. Beneath his skin, his feathers keep shifting, and he's been slightly distracted and agitated.

He pastes a smile to his face. "Ms. Mathis, I'm Bruce." He holds out a hand. "I'd like to discuss the irregularities I discovered in the Arkham Proje-"

Suddenly, the televisions on the walls switch on, static-y black and white streaking across the screens, glitching and slowly resolving into a low-res picture. A man steps into the frame, taps the green-filled tank by his side. "Hello, citizens of Gotham." He says, "I am responsible for the creation of the drug known as Viper—but I never intended for it to ever get beyond a theoretical. That blame lies solely with my former superiors in WellZyn—thus, Wayne Enterprises is ultimately responsible for the destruction it has caused; today, I seek to right the wrongs done to innocents by this corrupt corporation."

Bruce turns to Mathis. "Is this true?" he asks quietly.

Mathis shakes her head, but there's a slight paling on her cheeks, the tensing of her wings, silver feathers stiffening; Bruce wonders, through a curtain of anger and rage, whether she's the only one who's wearing a mask, or if all of the WI Board of Directors members have secrets and hidden agendas.

He wishes it didn't hurt as much, that his parents' world, their company, is corrupt, but he remembers his father and mother's never-ending quest to help Gotham's citizens, and it hurts tenfold.

* * *

"Come on, you have to let me in," Jaimie pleads, "unless you let me pass, everyone in that ballroom is going to die!"

The guard shrugs.

"Sorry, ma'm, no invite, no entrance," he says, apologetically.

"You know what, no," Jaimie snaps, and pushes past the guard, pulls Bullock behind her. She rams into the door at the end of the hallway with her shoulder when it doesn't open when she twists it, and someone on the other side lets out an _oof_ of surprise. Inside, there's various screens connected to the cameras, and a chair. "Bullock, look for a button or switch labelled P.A.-" she orders, turning to deal with the woman who's gotten up.

"I'm really sorry about this," she apologizes, before knocking the woman out, carefully placing her into the chair.

"Got it," Bullock calls, and Jaimie rushes to his side, flicks the switch. "Attention, Wayne Enterprises Charity Ball attendants—you need to evacuate the ballroom. Right now. This is a matter of life or death. Please do not panic, and make your way quickly to the exits."

"Bullock, go assists the ballgoers—I'm going to confront Potolsky." Bullock nods, offers no protest, leaving quickly. She wonders if, in another life, he might've protested, insisted she needs back-up.

Thankfully, the room she's in has a roof-access stairway, and she races up the steps, bursting through the door onto the roof; there, standing next to his rapidly-emptying tank of Viper, is Stan Potolsky. He turns to face Jaimie, calls, "Detective." There's a sort of resignation in his tone, as if he's known this would be the outcome all along.

"Potolsky." She doesn't say any more—there's no sense in trying to reason with him.

He nods slightly, a mere incline of his head. "My work here is done. WellZyn has been exposed; the fall of the Court has begun—I am merely one of many dominos to fall, the first in a chain of salvation. The Court must be destroyed, and a few lives is a small price to pay to avoid a mass destruction.

"What do you mean?" Jaimie asks, puzzled.

"If you need more proof, look inside Warehouse 39—but do hurry, Detective; the Court will hasten to cover their tracks." Then, he throws himself off the ledge—and how didn't she notice he was that close? She rushes to the edge, fingers outstretched in a vain attempt to catch the man, but it's too little too late, Potolsky already splayed out on the concrete.

* * *

She requests Ed accompany her to the warehouse, as the other option is Bullock, and Jaimie has a sneaking suspicion that the man would tip off whoever's hiding stuff there. When she opens the door, carefully, lest a creak of the hinges alert their presence to any others who might be there, Ed's eyes widen, and she stifles a gasp.

"Oh my _gods_ ," the forensics analyst whispers. There're tanks of green liquid of various shades, up on end like glowing columns. Each has a hazard warning label, and a label noting the effects and of the liquid and the code-names given to each version. Some are hooked up to test subjects—tubes filled with glowing green running from IVs into arms of pale men and women. There are even a few glass boxes hooked up to machines that dispense it as green gas, the test subjects strapped to white hospital beds. She isn't even sure any of them are alive. The sight makes her stomach turn, and she feels sick.

Ed handles it worse, stumbling and reaching for something to support herself, and Jaimie grabs her arm, steadying her, pulls her into a hug. The act of moving, though, causes her to catch sight of a white envelope hidden behind a toolbox on the highest shelf above the counter.

"Ed," she says quietly, "I know that this is awful, and I promise that we'll get these people buried and notify their families, but there's something that Potolsky told me—something about the destruction of Gotham, and I think he may have left a letter to help us, but I can't reach it—it's too high up, and I need your help, okay? Can you get that envelope on the highest shelf? Please? For me?"

Ed nods shakily, pulls her head from where it's rested on Jaimie's shoulder, and stands, grabs the envelope, and looks ready to collapse, so Jaimie helps her sit down on the floor, sits next to her, puts an arm around her.

With an unsteady hand, Ed opens the envelope, pulls out a crisply folded sheet of paper, unfolds it. The same spidery handwriting from Potolsky's photo etches its way across the page. With a shaking voice, Ed reads what's written.

"To whom it may concern,  
If you have found this, then that can only mean one thing—WellZyn has been exposed, and I am dead. Thus, you need to know a few key things-  
1\. Investigate the Court of Owls. Do so covertly—if the Court catches wind of any investigation into their organisation, it is unlikely you will remain alive. The court is not a myth. They are very real and unless stopped, will bring about the destruction of Gotham. I suggest you collude with the orphaned Bruce Wayne. He may be a child, but he is in a position to help, and I suspect he may already be looking into the Court. Do not say Their name more than absolutely necessary—they have spies everywhere.  
2\. Wayne Enterprises is controlled by Them.  
3\. Do not, under any circumstances, speak to my former assistant, Jervis Tetch. He is far more dangerous than you might think.  
Be safe,  
SP."

* * *

"Master Bruce," Alfred greets. The boy raises his head, sets the papers and files in his lap down, pushes the rolling corkboard pinned full of photos and red string strung between the pins to the side. "You've become quite the Anderson."

"Alfred," Bruce greets, ignoring the jibe, eyes falling to the tray in the butler's hands. "Ooh, are those turkey sandwiches?" He makes his way to Alfred's side, eyes eager.

Alfred rolls his eyes fondly at the boy's excitement, but lets him take a sandwich, and takes one for himself. "I'm certain I told you to put those files away," he scolds.

"Did you? I mustn't've heard," Bruce says, innocently.

Alfred sighs. "Well it doesn't matter much now, does it, since you've managed to convince me of your hair-brained conspiracy theories," he mutters. "Pass me a file."

Surprise flicker's across Bruce's face, then he breaks into a smile. "I knew I'd be able to sway you to my side eventually," he says. "It was only a matter of time."

* * *

Carmine sits on the bench, watching raptly as the pigeons cluster around the crumbs he throws them. It's something his mother did when he was a child, something he's grown to appreciate in his age; there is something uniquely calming about feeding pigeons.

Then, a sound, familiar, catches his attention. "...Questo bimbo a chi lo dò ? Se lo dò alla Befana, se lo tiene una settimana." The singer comes into sight, a blonde woman, humming softly in accented Italian, a single earbud in, staring off into the distance.

With a start, he realizes why it's familiar—it's a lullaby his mother sang to him, and apparently the surprise shows on his face, because the young woman looks to him, blinks, smiles and approaches him.

"Do you like it, too?" she asks. "It's one of my favourites—actually, I have a playlist of Italian lullabies." She pauses, asks, shyly, "If you want, you can listen to them with me." She offers the other earbud, and Carmine smiles.

"Thank you," he says, genuine, and gently takes the earbud. "I'm Carmine."

She smiles back. "I'm Liza."


End file.
